


Without You, I Can't Be Damned

by deadfrnk (SuckMyKilljoy)



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Anxiety, Asshole!Gerard, Depression, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Addiction, Prostitute!Frank, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-02-25 14:32:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 25,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2625263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuckMyKilljoy/pseuds/deadfrnk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard was relatively sure everyone assumed he was an asshole. Frank was relatively sure he'd die of cold before daybreak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“…and I want this one over here– no, no, _there_ – god dammit– Karen!”

A petite woman shuffled up frantically next to Gerard: one hand holding her clipboard, the other her brunette bun, tightly. “Yes, Mr. Way?” she asked cautiously, letting go of her bun and holding the clipboard out in front of her. She pulled a pencil from behind her ear. “What do you need?”

“I need better fucking help, these people are useless…” the artist sighed; and he ran a hand through his ebony hair, swooping it back. A few strands fell in front of his hazel eyes and he huffed, “And a hair clip, no matter how fucking idiotic I look.”

Karen stood before him, blinking confusedly. “Now, Karen!” he pressed, and the small woman jumped, startled, before gripping her bun and rushing off again.

Gerard sighed, and rolled his eyes, and shouted, “Now, people! Hurry up, let’s get this show on the road, we open in two hours!” He wanted to clap for good measure, but was distracted as he felt a buzz from his pants’ front pocket.

“What now?” he sighed, and slipped his cell out. The screen read, “UNKNOWN NUMBER. ACCEPT. IGNORE.” The artist huffed, and slid his thumb over “ACCEPT.” bringing the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

“Gerard, it’s me.”

“Mikes? My phone says “unknown number”, what the Hell?”

“Yeah, I’m calling from a pay phone outside the diner you were supposed to be at _thirty minutes ago_.”

Gerard held the phone away from his ear, disgruntled, and checked the time in the top right corner. Indeed, the clock read 5:45, which was, in fact, thirty minutes after the time he had agreed to meet his brother. “I’m sorry,” he grumbled. “Things have been Hell over here–”

“Things are always Hell everywhere for you, Gerard. Jesus, I’d almost tell you not to bother coming.”

“I am,” the artist sighed. “I’m– I’ll just be a bit late.”

“You are late.”

“Shut up.” Gerard frowned. “I’ll be there by 6 sharp, promise. If I’m not… then I’ll pay for dinner.”

“You _are_ paying for dinner.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Now, whatever. Just hurry up, okay? I’m pretty sure the lady in there thinks I got stood up or something. People are starting to feel sorry for me, Gerard.”

“Okay,” the artist sighed. “I will be there. Go back inside and order, like, a pie. I’ll be there.” On that note, Gerard pulled the phone down a final time, sliding his index finger over the “end call” button. “Karen!”

Another woman stepped up, her long, crimson curls bouncing as she walked. “Mr. Way?”

“You’re not Karen,” he said disdainfully, and read the woman’s name tag. “Trisha? Okay, okay… Trisha. I need you to tell Karen to– oh, forget it. Let her wonder. I’m leaving, okay? I had to meet my brother at 5:15, and–”

“Sir, it’s 5:48 now,” Trisha said. Gerard sighed, and ran his hands over his face.

“I know, I know, okay? Just.. make sure these idiots get the prints set up correctly, please? I’ll be back before we open at 7:00, okay?” Trisha nodded curtly, and stepped away, shouting orders to the workers hanging the paintings. 

Gerard sighed in relief and rushed to the building main entrance, grabbing his jacket from the coat stand by the door and pushing himself out into the chilly New York air.

“Fuckin’ freezing out here,” he grunted to himself as he slipped his phone back into his front pocket, and pulled his jacket on. “Bright lights, big city, 30 degrees indeed.”

He made it around the corner of the building with only a few hinderances, i.e. the dog that tripped him up on the trash can that was _right in the middle of the walkway, what the Hell, I hate New York_. The artist stopped int front of his car, pulling the key from his jacket pocket and unlocking it, slipping in to the 1997 black BMW with a happy sigh.

And then he remembered he had no fucking idea where he was going.

“Great. Just my life.”

 

 

“I’m sorry,” Gerard whined as he slumped into the booth across from his brother. Mikey’s expression stayed flat and unamused.

“Oh, hi, Gerard. Want some pie? It’s really cold, and not at all good anymore– oh, did I mention it’s 6:30?” he drawled.

“I’m sorry, I really am– I just… I got lost. God, I hate New York–”

The artist was cut off by a plump woman wearing the fashion faux pas of the century. She turned to Mikey when she spoke, and said, “So are you actually gonna order any real food, now that your boyfriend is here?”

Mikey visibly cringed; Gerard snorted and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m getting a bacon cheeseburger and he’s getting–”

“Uh, the chicken caesar pita bread.. whatever.” Gerard handed his menu over to the woman, who raised an eyebrow at him.

“Aren’t you that one with the funny art gallery down the block?”

Gerard blinked. “Define funny?”

“Stupid.”

The artist narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, that’s mine.”

“Thought so.” The woman collected the other menu off the edge of the table, and she shuffled off.

“So,” Mikey said, flatly.

“So?”

“I have been waiting here since 5:15, what do you think is, “ _so”_?” the blonde sighed. “Whatever… have you been taking your medication?”

“My what?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot again,” Mikey sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Thanks,” the artist drawled. “I try.”

“Whatever. How are things with Lizzie?”

“Lindsey?” Gerard asked. “You mean Lindsey. Yeah, she broke up with me.”

“I wonder why,” the blonde intoned. Gerard rolled his eyes.

“Whatever. She said her old high school sweetheart was back in town and she wanted to catch up. I took the hint,” he shrugged; and picked up the plastic triangular drink menu, and turned it over in his hands. “How are things with you and Alicia?”

“Better than yours,” Mikey sighed. “Look, Gerard… you’re almost twenty-seven years old. Could you maybe think about settling down more permanently, please? Mom is worried sick over you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Mom always worries.”

“That’s because she loves you. I don’t know why, but she does.”

“Haha, very funny. Look, I’m more successful in life that you are,” the artist grumbled. “I own a fucking gallery, you work for a record company.”

“At least my job is fun, and I have friends. You’re just a recluse, Jesus. Did no one ever tell you money doesn’t actually equal happiness?”

“I am happy,” Gerard retorted.

“Give me your wrist.”

“What? No!”

“Prove to me that you’re happy, Gee. You can’t even prove it.”

“Whatever,” the noirette hissed, and tucked his hands down under the table. “I’m happy.”

Mikey sighed. “You keep telling yourself that, Gerard, and tell me where it gets you.”

 

 

“I swear to God, I swear to God…” the artist whined, as he rushed from his car to the gallery. He’d checked his phone roughly two minutes ago, and it had read 7:32. Which meant that he was late to his own presentation. Again.

He pushed through the doors and was instantly bombarded by Karen, who was frantic as she asked, “Where were you, Mr. Way? People want to make deals with you, Crimeny, and you’re missing it all!”

“I know, Karen, I know,” he grunted, pushing the petite woman out of the way. “I was held up. Now, where am I supposed to be?”

“I think you’ve passed the toast, and the speech, and the slideshow-ing, slideshow showing? Slide– oh, whatever. Just stand by your art, I guess, and answer questions.” Karen straightened the clipboard to her side, and said, “Two people have left me numbers; they’d like you to get back to them. I’ll give them to you when this is all done.”

“Thank you,” Gerard sighed; Karen nodded, and he made his way through the crowds of people with suits and champagne. He couldn’t help but wonder when the last time was that he’d drawn for fun.

His attention was diverted halfway to the back hall by a portly man in a rouge suit, who was wobbling slightly; from top-heaviness or intoxication, Gerard couldn’t tell. “Mr. Way,” the man said, voice gruff. Gerard nodded, and put his hands behind his back.

“Sir?”

“I’ve come to the conclusion that your art is… good.”

Gerard faked a smile. “Thank you,” he said curtly. “Ah, might I ask who you are?”

“I am Mr. Whittaker,” the man slurred. “I own Whittaker and Whittaker Co. We’re looking for blossoming artists to design pieces for our new foundations, and I think your art would suit our company just lovely.”

Gerard had a hard time believing any of anything the man had said, especially ‘suit our company just lovely’; but he nodded anyway, and said politely, “If you give me a card, I will contact you about it as soon as I can.”

Mr. Whittaker fumbled for a bit, before he thrust out his empty champagne glass to Gerard. “Here, take this,” he ordered, and the artist did, gingerly, waiting as the balding man pulled out a business card from his overcoat pocket.

“Thank you, Sir,” Gerard said shortly, and took the card in place of the glass in his hand. Mr. Whittaker nodded, burped, and slowly made his way across the room.

Gerard looked down at the card, shrugged, and placed it in his back pocket. He hoped he’d remember it before he threw his jeans in the wash; and as he glanced around the room at all the old and balding businessmen to match Mr. Whittaker’s lovely self, he hoped the night would soon be over, as well, so he could get home and dwell in all his wonderful happiness alone.

 

 

“Ugh. Honey, I’m home!” The artist shut the door behind him, and slipped his jacket off, dropping it to the floor. He padded into the kitchen and pulled the empty coffeepot from the counter, filling it up with water and pouring some for the little potted plant that sat on his windowsill. “Did you miss me?” No response. “Of course not.”

He poured the rest of the water back out into the sink, and set the pot back onto the counter. He opened his fridge and stared in it for a while before deciding that he really wasn’t all that hungry. He grabbed a mug from the fridge, anyway, and peered into it. Upon deciding that it was coffee, he moved over to the microwave and placed the cup in.

Gerard tapped his fingers out to a simple beat, some Joy Division song that Mikey had played one too many times in his presence. The microwave dinged and he retrieved his coffee, and shuffled into the living room, where he deposited himself with a sigh.

He was halfway through his some three-hundred channels with finding not one horror movie on, before he remembered that he’d left his car unlocked.

“Absolutely fuck!” he cursed out loud, swinging his feet off the coffee table and setting his mug down on it. He bolted to the door and let himself out, immediately regretting leaving his jacket because wouldn’t you know it, it was still 30 degrees out, and he was going to die of frostbite.

He hurried down the stairs and to his car, and went to try the handle, to se if it really was unlocked.

Which it wasn’t.

“Are you fucking–” The artist slumped down against the old vehicle, head in his hands as he sighed and cursed his life. “Fucking stupid idiot asshole jerk bitch fucker dumb moron, fuck fuck fuck,” and he hit his palm against the side of his head; and he remembered what Mikey had said about taking his medication, and he knew that if he would just listen once in a while, he wouldn’t be getting himself into these messes.

He eventually pushed himself up and made his way back to the apartment complex, trudging and muttering all the way, directly into a person.

“What?” he asked, taken aback. The man in front of him was looking down, and soaking wet, even though it hadn’t rained a drop the entire day. “Um? Can I help you?”

The man looked up; and now Gerard could see that he didn’t really look like a man, a young adult maybe, but he certainly wasn’t older than the artist himself. He said, “Can you help me?” and then, “I’m cold,” and he coughed.

“Okay, creepy,” Gerard said, and put his hand out to the younger man’s shoulder. “Uh, my apartment is just up these stairs, if you wanna come inside and get dry?”

The man nodded; and so Gerard led the way up the stairs, wondering all the while what the Hell he was getting into. This guy could want to murder him or steal all his shit or something.

He opened the door and stepped through, and moved over so that the other man could do the same. “Uh, shower’s on the right… I can put your clothes in the dryer while you’re in, and maybe give you a ride home afterwards? What are you doing on the streets anyway?”

The man stepped into the light just slightly, and when he turned, Gerard could finally see his features distinctly. He had hazel eyes and perfect eyebrows, and his lip and nose were pierced. His hair hung messy in one eye, and it was cut short in the back. He looked at Gerard then, focusing on the artist and he said, “I work the streets. And I don’t have a home.”

“Oh? Oh. _Oh_. Uh, sorry… Well, where do you stay, normally?”

The man shrugged, and wrapped a his arms around himself. “With the men I work for, mostly. On the streets, sometimes.”

Gerard blinked. “Well, ah… Are you hungry? Here, I’ll go get the shower started–”

“You don’t have to be nice to me, you don’t have to pity me for my job,” the man said. He sniffed slightly, and his nose started bleeding.

Gerard’s shoulders sank. “Oh, you are a mess. Please, just– let me– uh, what’s your name?” he finally asked, once he saw from the man’s expression that pity really was getting him nowhere.

“Frank,” he said, and wiped at his nose. He looked down at his hand then, disdained. “Can I really shower, though?”

“Yeah, of course. Just leave your clothes–” but the man was already kicking off his shoes and taking off his shirt. “O-or that,” the artist added, cautiously.

“What, I get naked for a living. It’s not a big deal,” he shrugged, handing his shirt to Gerard, and struggled to get out of his pants. “And might I ask, what’s your name?”

“Gerard,” the artist said slowly.

“Gerard like ‘I unfortunately have the same name as that asshole big name artist’ Gerard, or like ‘I am that asshole big name artist’ Gerard?”

“Yeah, uh, the second one,” the noirette said, sheepishly. Frank shrugged, and handed him his pants.

“Here. And that’s fine, I deal with assholes everyday. Haha, and I deal with actual assholes… get it, cos I’m a– oh, never mind,” Frank said, and sighed. “I dunno, though. You can’t be that much of an asshole if you’re offering me up a place to stay, and not looking at me like I’m some kind of urchin.”

“Well, you’re cold, and wet, and… homeless? I can’t really turn you away, I mean it’s like, 20 degrees out there, you’ll freeze,” Gerard explained.

“Ah, see? Not such an asshole, then. I bet it’s all a ploy.” Frank then held his boxers out to Gerard. “Here. I’ll find the shower, and you can dry these.”

Gerard took the wet article of clothing and added it to the pile on his arm. “Yeah, will do.”

 

 

“So your shower is orgasmic,” Frank said, when he stepped out of the bathroom and into the living room. He was wearing the same clothes as before, but they were all dry now (and clean, Gerard had taken the liberty of running them through the wash first, too). His hair was still wet, though, and it was curled at the nape of his neck and at the bottom of his fringe. “Thank you,” he said, and Gerard shrugged.

“Do you want anything to eat?” the artist asked. “I have a lot of food, I’m sure there’s something–”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t. Sorry, it’s not that I’m a picky eater, really… but I’m vegan. And lactose-intolerant, and allergic to eggs? I think? Basically I can eat like, a head of lettuce. I don’t want to put all that on you,” Frank said, and shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“Well, just tell me if you want anything later, then. I’ll probably have it, trust me– my fridge is like a supermarket.”

Frank laughed then, and said, “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

After a while of him just standing there, looking a bit lost, Gerard said, “You know you can sit down?”

“Sorry, I’m not used to being able to do things without people telling me to. There’s not really… on your couch, won’t we be a bit cramped?” Gerard shrugged. “Okay…”

“Really, I don’t mind,” he said, and Frank shuffled over to the cough, and sat down next to him.

“Wow, this is really comfy,” he said, sinking into the pillows. “Jesus…”

“Do you want to watch anything in particular?” Gerard asked. Frank looked at him, incredulously.

“Really? Dude, are you serious?”

“Uh, yeah–”

“Can we watch Dawn of the Dead? I haven’t seen that in so long.. man, I miss horror movies.”

“Are you kidding me? Dawn of the Dead is fucking great. I think I have it, actually, like _own it_ have it. Here, let me check,” and the artist shifted himself off the couch, causing Frank to sink in more.

“Are you sure this isn’t actually a cloud in disguise?” he called, and Gerard laughed. He put in the movie and stepped back, and Frank scooted over a bit to make room.

“That would be pretty great,” he said. “But, no. Alas, it is only stuffing and cloth.. and whatever the Hell else couches are made of.”

 

 

“Hey, do you know what time it is?” Frank asked after a while. Gerard shrugged.

“11:30, maybe? Why?”

“Shit, I should probably get going–” but when the younger man made move to get up, Gerard held him back.

“You can stay dude, really. It’s not that big of a deal…”

“Okay, but I promise I’ll be out of your hair bright and early tomorrow, okay? No excuses.”

Gerard shrugged. “Okay, man. Just remember that you’re welcome for as long as you want.”

Frank sat back down then, and leaned into the artist, just slightly. “Thanks for that.”

“No problem. See, I’m not such an asshole after all.”

Frank laughed. “What did I say? It’s all a ploy.”

“Yeah,” Gerard said, and sighed. “Sometimes it’s easier to be a Grinch than let people know how you really feel.”

“Well then what makes me different?”

Gerard laughed humorlessly. “You came into my life with no expectations for me, and you were about as run down as I feel now. If I don’t have a reputation to uphold around you, then why should I?”

Frank smiled sadly. “See, now if you start thinking that about everyone, you won’t be an asshole anymore.”

“You’re the only one.”

“Am I?”

“Yup,” Gerard nodded. “You’re the only person who’s made it this far without getting to see my worst side.”

“Oh, I feel so special,” Frank drawled, jokingly.

“Yeah. You should.”


	2. Chapter 2

Gerard awoke the next morning, slumped over on the white loveseat, to what sounded like very unhappy sick sounds in the bathroom. He yawned, loudly, stretched, and pushed himself off the couch, padding to the bathroom. “You okay in there?” he called sympathetically.

“No,” came the grunted reply. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I told you I would be out of your hair this morning but–” The younger man on the other side of the bathroom door was interrupted by a cough. “I’m sorry, I should’a mentioned I get sick real easy.”

“Well thank God I took you in off the damn street,” Gerard said, and rolled his eyes. “It’s okay, man. Don’t worry about it, alright? Now I’m gonna make some coffee, would you–”

“Yes, dear God please,” Frank called back. Gerard blinked, and nodded to himself.

“Okie dokie, two coffees coming right up,” he muttered to himself, and slunk off to the kitchen.

Frank came out of the bathroom a while later, looking absolutely miserable, and Gerard thrust the cup of coffee in his face instantly. “You poor thing,” he began, but Frank just looked at him, and said flatly, “Pity, Gerard.”

“Sorry,” the artist sighed. “Dude, you didn’t sound too good in there earlier, do you know what it is?”

“Probably just a cold, or something. I have the immune system of a patch of moss.” Frank ran a hand over his face then, and said, “I’ll be out in an hour, tops, I promise. Let me just–” and he interrupted himself once again with a loud cough.

“Haha, no way, dude. You’re staying right here until you get better, okay? If you had somewhere decent to stay, this would be different, but–”

“How am I supposed to work? It’s not like I have the money to pay you rent,” the younger man shrugged, and took a sip of his coffee.

Gerard sighed. “That’s the point; you don’t have to pay me. I’m doing this because I want to, not cos I expect to get anything out of it.”

“Well, you have to let me earn my keep somehow.”

“You should be in bed, I most certainly will not,” the artist said, and set down his mug. “Here, I’ll let you stay in my bed for the time being, and I’ll sleep on the couch–”

“Wow, the tabloids really are wrong about you,” Frank said, and he turned to face Gerard. “Unless you’re planning to secretly kill me, or arrest me… you’re one of the nicest people I’ve met; and trust me, with my job, I meet a lot of people.”

“Like I said,” the artist sighed, “You’re different. I don’t have to keep up appearances around you. ‘Anything you say can and will be held against you’ doesn’t apply in this situation, not really.”

“I don’t get it though,” Frank said, after setting down his coffee (and coughing again). “You have a good life. You’re rich and a lot of people like you, and you have a cloud for a couch for Christ’s sake.”

Gerard turned then, and smiled sadly. “Did no one ever tell you money doesn’t actually equal happiness?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Frank shrugged. “There was never anyone around to tell me.”

 

 

“You know, normally it’s me who has the boys in bed by noon,” Frank commented, looking up from under his arm at Gerard, who was fussing about his bedroom for God knows what. “If your couch is a cloud, your bed isn’t even real. Jesus, imagine sex in this thing. Ugh, it’s so soft,” and the younger man rolled over, talking into the pillow. “I’ll have to get sick around the rich more often if all their beds are like this.”

“I’m glad your comfortable,” Gerard said seriously. “Do you normally take a specific kind of medicine for colds?”

“I normally take no medicine at all. Gerard, I live off the streets, I don’t really have money to afford a luxury like feeling better,” Frank mumbled, and hugged the pillow. “Whatever you think you should give me, then that’s good.”

“Okay,” Gerard sighed, and went into the bathroom.

When he came back Frank was laying sprawled out like a starfish, muttering, “It’s so big, it’s like Heaven.” Gerard bit his tongue to hold back a laugh.

“Having fun there?” he asked playfully. Frank opened one eye.

“Yes. But I don’t get it, why sleep of the couch when there’s at least a six-person capacity for this thing?” he asked, and shut his eye again.

“Because that would be rude of me,” Gerard said, and set down two pills and a cup of water on the nightstand.

“Nah, not really,” Frank sighed. “I get lonely. Plus, I’m used to it, hello? You’re a bit of a scatterbrain– or does remembering that I sell sex for money creep you out? Sorry.”

“No, dude. Honestly, your job takes more effort than mine does. Maybe though, did you ever think, I don’t want to catch your cold?”

“Oh, yeah, that does make sense,” Frank hummed. “Okay, you get a free pass. Cos I know that under any other circumstances, you’d want to get in here with me,” he laughed. “You have to admit, I’m cute.”

“You’re adorable,” Gerard drawled. “But, hey. I left the pills and water on the nightstand, okay? I’m gonna go call in sick for work, so I can take care of you, and make sure you don’t steal my shit. Be back in a sec,” the artist said, and made his way to the kitchen.

 

 

“You’re housing a prostitute? Need to know information, Gerard,” Mikey drawled off the other end of the call.

Gerard sighed. “First of all, no. Shut up. I brought him in off the streets because he was soaked; and he woke up with a cold, so he’s staying here for now, okay?”

“That sounds like complete bullshit. You know that, right? Look, Gerard, I’m busy. What do you _really_ want?”

“I want you to believe me, firstly,” the older boy grumbled.

“Well, that’s not happening.”

“Look, I will send you a fucking photo of him so you believe me, okay?”

“Uh-huh. Right.” 

Gerard rolled his eyes and pulled the phone away from his ear, and called, “Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“Convince my dick brother you’re really here!”

“I’m really here,” the younger man called back, and then, “and I’m really queer. Get used to it!”

Gerard snorted, and put the phone back to his ear. “See?”

There was shuffling on the other end of the line, and then a sigh. “Yeah, okay. You’re not lying. Now what do you want?”

“I just wanted to gloat. Look, I’m doing a nice thing,” the artist laughed.

“You’re an asshole,” Mikey sighed, and hung up. Gerard set his phone on the kitchen counter and laughed, and went back into the bedroom, where Frank was sitting and chewing on the edge of the paper cup.

“Are you a llama?” Gerard laughed, and sat at the foot of the bed.

“Fuck off. Oral fixation. And I got bored,” he whined. “Entertain me.”

“Wow, I didn’t know prostitutes were so high-maintenance,” Gerard laughed.

“They’re not,” Frank shrugged. “Just me.”

“Well, you should be sleeping off your cold,” the artist suggested.

“Boring,” Frank vetoed. “I’m not tired, anyway. I wanna do something fun,” he whined, and then coughed.

“What’s fun that doesn’t involve getting out of bed?”

“Well–”

“Never mind, I fucked, okay? Don’t answer that,” the artist sighed, cheeks crimson. “I meant like… I might have– ugh, dude, I don’t know.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a guitar, would you?”

“Um, actually, yeah. Why?”

Frank grinned. “Cos I play. Well, I used to play, when I had one… do you think I can play yours?”

“Uh, sure. Just let me go get it…” and the artist moved to the closet down the hall, where he pulled out the black and white acoustic-electric guitar.

“Aw, she’s beautiful,” Frank crooned, arms outstretched to take the guitar. “You really don’t mind?”

Gerard smiled. “No, I really don’t. I can’t play for shit, anyway.”

“I used to play all the time,” Frank said, as he was messing around tuning the guitar. “I still remember everything I learned.” He smiled as he began strumming a few chords, slowly turning them into a song that Gerard vaguely recognized.

“Is that the Misfits?” he asked. Frank nodded, grinning.

“Yeah, I love them, man.”

And after a while, Gerard started singing along, a few words here and there, and Frank stopped, and said, “You have a nice voice.”

“Oh? Thanks. Yeah, I guess all the talent you got in your fingers I got in singing, or something,” and the artist laughed.

“Probably.” The younger man coughed again, but it was already better than before. “Hey, maybe I can even leave early, if you want. Just give me a few more pills to last me until I’m patched up again.”

“Why don’t I trust you with that?” the artist asked. Frank smiled.

“I’m a prostitute. Why would you trust me with anything?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a day late, whoops.

“And I’ll be calling the house phone every couple hours to check in, okay?” The artist rushed around his bedroom, stopping in front of his vanity mirror to straighten his tie before turning to Frank.

The younger man looked up from his buried spot in the white comforter of the European King, and he said, “Yeah, okay. Don’t stress yourself too much if I don’t answer, though. I’ll probably be asleep.”

“You should be asleep,” Gerard commented, and stopped himself just barely before leaving the room. “Remember to take your pills again at 2:00, I left them–”

“Gerard. I’ll be fine, okay?”

The artist nodded curtly, and turned and left the room.

And two seconds later, came back in. “Oh, but–”

“Gerard!”

“Yeah, okay.”

 

 

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

There was a cough, and then the younger man spoke, his voice decidedly more nasal than normal. “I’m fine, Gerard. But, uh, you kinda woke me up– do you think I can get back to sleep, now?”

“Uh, yeah, of course–” but the artist was interrupted by a timid knock on his door, and he put his hand over the receiver as he called, “Yes?”

“Mr. Way, might I come in for a moment?” The reply was hesitant, and by the time it reached the artist, he’d already put the phone back to his ear.

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Frank said off the other end of the line.

“No, not you. Karen? Yeah, come in, just a sec!”

The petite woman pushed her way into the room, ever-present clipboard tucked to her side. “I’d appreciate if you returned those calls you missed yesterday when you were out? I’ve gotten a few disgruntled emails that I’d have rather not…”

“Ooh, who’s this Karen?” Frank’s laughter could be heard over the phone. “Is she your girlfriend? Having sex with co-workers, Gerard? Bad, bad man–”

Gerard pulled his phone down, face filling with crimson. Karen looked at the phone, confusedly. “Who are you talking to, Mr. Way?”

“Ah, no one,” he coughed out. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“I don’t believe it.” And the brunette woman made her way over to the artist, where she reached for his phone. “No personal calls on the job, remember?”

“This isn’t a personal call–” Gerard argued, and held his phone away from the small woman. She continued to reach for it.

“No? I don’t believe it,” she repeated. “Please, Mr. Way…”

Gerard sighed, and rolled his eyes, and brought the phone to his ear, and muttered into it, quickly, “’Kay, gotta go, love you,” and hung up.

“Wait…” And the artist looked down at his phone in mortification, before throwing it on the table in front of him. “Ah?”

“Not a personal call, my ass,” Karen muttered, as she was leaving Gerard’s office. “Yeah, I emailed you the numbers. Please, call them? Old and balding businessmen can be quite grumpy…” and she let the door fall shut behind her.

Gerard blinked after her for a moment, and then looked back down to his cell, before picking up the corded phone off to the side of his desk. He pulled himself up to his desk, and clicked around the mouse, muttering to himself about, “Oh, God, why,” and, “I should really hire a new intern,” as he pulled up the emailed phone numbers Karen had sent.

He tried to forget anything and everything about Frank, for the time being.

 

 

Gerard’s plan to put his awkward mistake behind him –i.e. grab a bottle down at the liquor store and _drink_ the mistake away– was foiled the second he opened his apartment door– to a very “have-not-forgotten” house guest in an apron, and holding a pie tin.

“Welcome home, Honey! Love you, too.”

Gerard blinked. “Frank.”

“What?” The younger man took a bite of the pie, and smirked, taking his apron off and dropping it over one of the chairs in the kitchen bar. “Store-bought,” he admitted, pointing to the pie with the fork. “Well, store-ordered? They dropped it off at the door and I told them to send the bill to Baron Iero. I didn’t know that shit actually worked? Could’a fooled me.” He sat down then, on the edge of the loveseat, and continued to eat the pie. “So, how did work go?”

“What.” Gerard ran his hands over his face, and dropped his jacket at the foot of the door, muttering to himself as he trudged up to the kitchen.

“It’s strawberry, by the way,” the younger man called; and leaned himself over the couch, holding the pie out to the artist. “Want some? I can’t eat all of this by myself, I’m gonna be sick.”

“You are sick,” the artist muttered, and filled a cup with water from the sink. He watered the little plant on his windowsill, cooing at it ridiculously, and Frank snorted.

“I know; but it gets unimaginably boring lying down doing absolutely nothing. Especially when I’m oh-so used to doing everything all in two minutes.”

Gerard grunted. “Uh-huh. Did you try playing more guitar, watch some TV, take a shower, read a book, make phone calls to friends, sleep?”

Frank looked sheepish, then; and he slunk down into the couch, cheeks tinted crimson. “I-I didn’t know I could,” he said shyly. The artist raised an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t I tell you before, I’m not used to doing things if people haven’t told me to? I didn’t think you’d want me to mess with your stuff,” the younger man mumbled. Gerard laughed.

“Ah, dude? You’re my guest. Go ahead, do whatever. I mean heck, y’ordered a pie without my consent.” The artist walked around, then, and sat on the couch next to Frank.

“Sure?” the younger man asked, turning to the artist, who nodded.

“Sure,” he said. “Now hey, pass me that pie?”

 

 

“So, about earlier today–”

“No worries,” Frank said, looking up from his cocoon of white comforter. He sniffed a little, and hit Gerard on the arm, gently. “Hey, pass me a tissue?”

“Oh, uh– yeah.” The artist pulled a tissue from the box and passed it to the younger man. “But, I mean–”

“Really, no worries.” Frank shrugged. “You’re not the only man, unsurprisingly, who’s made the big three-word mistake to me– on the job, and off it.”

Gerard blinked; and he turned to Frank, confusedly. “That happen a lot?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s kinda gross, to be honest?” The younger man laughed, and shrugged again. “It’s kinda funny too, though, watching them get all flustered and “whoops” about it. I dunno, I think they like to pretend I’m their wives, sometimes, back when their marriages were all golden and they didn’t have to use people like me to get away from it all.”

“That’s kind of a really sucky job,” the artist commented. Frank looked at him then, and sighed.

“Yeah, it’s not the ideal employment.” He sank back into the pillows, then, and laughed humorlessly. “Whatever, look at me; telling my life story to some big shot asshole artist with it all? I don’t think so.”

“I don’t have it all,” Gerard said softly.

“No? Tell me, then. You have the money, and the fans, and the fame and a family who loves you. That sounds like ‘all’ to me, what’s missing?” The younger man’s words weren’t harsh, or accusatory, but genuinely confused and curious. Gerard shrugged, and turned to look at him.

“It’s kind of hard to explain, but this might do it?” At that, the artist held out his wrist to Frank. There was a healing, but still present deep, red gash across the pale flesh, right across the main vein. Frank gaped at it; and grabbed Gerard’s wrist, and traced his finger along the red line.

“But–?”

Gerard pulled his wrist away then, and tucked his hands down between his knees. “I am a recovering alcoholic, drug addict, with a long history of manic-depression, suicidal tendencies…” He sighed, and looked back at Frank, sadly. “You know, I think I thought at one time that the life I had was fun, and worth it… but I’m not happy. I mean, you don’t need it all to be happy, but you don’t need to be happy to ‘have it all’, either.”

“Sorry,” Frank said sheepishly. “I mean, wow. I never would’a guessed… I figured that you didn’t– well–”

“You don’t have to apologize,” the artist shrugged. “I mean, you’re only in the same boat as me, in different ways.”

“My dad left when I was really little, and my mom died when I was fifteen… and no one wanted to take me in. So, I had to get a job; but I wanted to move to New York, right? At least I’d have a better chance there, I thought. And so I hitched a ride with some shady trucker who told me he’d be nice, and give me a fifty for the road if I blew him. Uh, yeah.” Frank stopped then, and nodded pointedly. “So, that’s how I got into my job.”

“Since you were fifteen?” the artist appalled. “How old are you now?”

“Ah, I just turned… twenty-two?” Frank said.

“You’ve been living off the streets for eight years?”

“Wow, has it really been that long?” The younger man shrugged. “I guess. There was a time somewhere in there where I wasn’t working- because I jumped off a bridge; and when whoever found me did, I was put in the hospital. But, other than that, yeah.”

“You jumped off a bridge?” the artist asked, softly. Frank just looked at him, sadly.

“You slit your wrists?”


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m pretty sure if you could die from boredom, I would be dead right now.”

“I’m at _work_ , Frank,” the artist muttered, “and the last time you called me at work, my intern got… suspicious.” He looked up at that, and out around the doorframe, down the hall, before slipping out of his office and into the break room across from it. “…and trust me, when my intern gets suspicious, she gets– _Oh, hi Karen_.”

“What?” Gerard ignored the younger man’s confusion, slipping his phone down away from his ear and hitting ‘end call’. He smiled tightly at the petite woman, who raised a sharp eyebrow.

“You’re talking to the same person again, aren’t you?” she asked; and Gerard wondered just when the Hell she’d gotten so forward.

“Ah, yeah, actually, I was.” And the artist started wondering when he’d let himself get so soft, _damn it, Frank_ , and drawled, “And actually Karen, it’s none of your business anyway. You work for me, not vice versa. I’m thankful for the reminder but really, _I don’t need it_.” 

The petite woman blushed, and ducked her head down as she apologized, “I’m sorry, Mr. Way,” before shucking off out of the break room.

“Yeah, right,” the noirette muttered tiredly, before moving to get himself a cup of definitely-not-the-shitty-kind of coffee; before his phone rang in his palm, startling him to near death.

“Frank, this is the third time–”

“Um, no?” Gerard sighed, shoulders slumping in relief at his brother’s voice. “It’s not Frank, it’s God.”

“Ah. Ha. Ha. Very funny, you little shit; the phone almost gave me a heart attack,” the artist mourned; and held his phone against his ear with his shoulder, tweaking around with the coffee maker.

“Oh, good.”

“Mmm. So?” The artist paused, waiting for a response that never came. “Why the phone call, dip-wad.”

“Mom called _me_ again,” the other man whined. “She says you keep ignoring her calls.”

Gerard sighed; and he shifted his phone to the other ear with one hand, taking a sip of the totally-not-the-shitty-kind of coffee before saying, “I _have_ been a bit busy.”

“You’ve been a bit busy with a _prostitute_. Oh, and speaking of? I told her that. She wants you over for dinner– _and_ your little boyfriend.”

“Frank isn’t my boyfriend, you fuck; and I’m only “housing” him because he’s sick. And a good guy, actually, despite being a prostitute,” Gerard retaliated, pressing the ‘OFF’ button on the coffee maker and exiting the break room, slinking back into his office.

“Whatever, Gee. Look, I’m sorry for being bitchy, but I’ve had a bad day. I just want _you_ to deal with your life, for once; and answer mom’s calls, she’s worried about you. She really does want you and Frank over for dinner though– so you might want to clear up that you’re not actually dating…” The other man trailed off and Gerard looked down at his desk in disdain, sighing and putting his forehead in his palm.

“Yeah, I know. Okay, look– despite being the boss around here, I _do_ have to work. I’ll call you when I get home, I’ve already been interrupted thrice anyway and I actually need to make important phone calls–”

“I get it, Gee, okay? I’m just–” The man on the other end of the line sighed, and then, “I _love_ you, Gerard. Mom loves you. And I know you’re… sick, right, and I know you’re not happy– I know you fake it around me, Lord knows you fake it around _everyone_. I just– I want you to be okay.”

“Okay, Mikey. I get it. I really gotta go now, though?”

“I just– I love you. Don’t– Jesus, Gerard, if anything ever happened to you, I’d–”

“Kay, that’s really cool and I love you too, don’t do anything stupid like get Ali pregnant because I’m not ready for that responsibility, keep holding off mom for a while more and stop thinking that I’m going to kill myself because I haven’t tried, again,” the older man rushed, and with one final sigh, hit ‘end call’.

Gerard sat back then, sinking back into his plush office chair and sighing; before deciding against work for a while longer, and calling his brother back.

“Look, that was really shitty of me and I’m _sorry_ …”

The other man sighed, and there was a loud, exasperated popping noise before he said anything. “The thing is though, Gee? You _did_. You did try to kill yourself, a-and–” Another heavy sigh. “I worry so fucking much about you. I just–” His voice came muffled, as if he were talking into his hand. “I just wish I could take care of you, because God knows you don’t take care of yourself.”

“Yeah,” the artist muttered, softly. “I know.”

 

 

“So, Gerard,” Frank said, over a mouthful of vegan lasagne. He turned to the artist and smiled out the corner of his mouth, swallowed, and said, “I think I’m ready to start working again.”

“You’re leaving?” Gerard set his glass down, eyebrows creased and mouth set in a frown. “Heck, man,” he laughed, “I kinda just got used to having you around.”

“Well that’s the thing,” the younger man said, and shrugged down shyly in his seat. “I was only wonderin’… and I mean in no way to stretch your hospitality.. but maybe I could stay, just a bit longer, until I– I–”

“You can stay as long as you want,” the noirette said softly. “You aren’t stretching hospitality, you’re giving me company– which is enough pay in and of itself, so don’t you dare think about giving me rent.”

Frank smiled timidly. “You sure?”

“Hell, yeah I’m sure. I like having you around, okay? You’re cool, Frankie.” The artist reached around then, hugging the younger man to his side. “I get to be myself around you.”

The younger man beamed back at Gerard, and hugged him as tight as his one free arm would allow, thanking him all over the place.

“Oh, but I’m not sick anymore,” the other man said, after a while.

“Yeah?”

“So, does that mean you’ll be sleeping in your bed again?”

 

 

“So, my mom wants us for dinner.”

“Ah?” Frank looked up from his ever-held spot in the lump of white comforter, to Gerard who was laying on the bed next to him, curled up under a few spare blankets. 

He took a sip of his drink before nodding; and he set it down on the dresser beside him as he said, “Yeah; and I haven’t seen her in so long, I don’t really have the heart to say no, y’know? Except that it’s totally unnecessary that you come– well, I mean if you don’t feel like it–” The artist stopped himself, laughing. “I’m just trying to say I’ll be gone for a few–”

“I’d love to come with you,” the younger man grinned. “Hey, now, pass me that coffee?” And he stretched over Gerard to the night stand, where he retrieved the artist’s cup. “When are we going, though? Does she know I’m a, you know…” and he made a few crude gestures with his hands. “That’s not really my ideal dinner subject talk-about.”

“She doesn’t know,” Gerard assured. “You don’t have to tell her, either. If she asks what your job is, feel free to just ignore her, if you want. Although I don’t think she’ll hate on it too much– like I said, most people think prostitution is disgusting; well, most people don’t go into prostitution _for the job_. It’s– I dunno. I get it from your point of view, though. I understand– But maybe that’s ‘cause you understand me, too?”

“Us freaks gotta stay together,” Frank laughed; and then his face grew soft, and serious, and he said, “Hey… I wanna show you something?” He passed off the cup of coffee back to Gerard, who returned it to its home on the dresser; and he lifted up his shirt and turned just slightly, to give the artist a better angle to see.

“What am I looking at?” Gerard questioned, softly; and Frank pointed to a spot on his back just above his hipbone– a spot where the skin looked very thin, and very dark; and it trailed up to just under his lowest rib.

“When I jumped, I hit some nasty rock; and it snapped this lowest rib, and the top of my hipbone got nicked off– literally. There was blood everywhere, and a giant hole in my side. So…” He let his shirt fall down, and turned once again to face the artist. “You see, I got scars too.” He reached over then, and pushed Gerard’s sleeve up, and ran his fingers along the dark red line there. “Just like you, I was patched back up. You know what that means? It doesn’t mean we failed, we didn’t do it right, we’re pathetic and worthless and all those other things I though until I realized– it means that we were meant to be here, in the end. We took a jump from life, because we thought it would be better off; but, we’re still here, right? That just goes to show that no matter how bad life gets, there’s always gonna be something that _somebody_ out there wants you to look forward to. It’s not always so bad in the end.”

“Are you sure you aren’t my guardian angel?” Gerard laughed then, and pulled the younger man closer to him. “God, I wish I could be just like you.”

“Why?”

“You’re pretty fucking brave.”

The younger man laughed. “I jumped off a bridge; that’s not brave.”

“Yeah, but think about it. Out of every way to go– what’s so surefire about that? There was the chance that you would live –which you did– and you took that chance, because you thought either way, that things would be better. I never took a chance a day in my life at all, nothing brave like that.”

Frank sighed then, and wrapped his fingers around Gerard’s wrist. “I don’t think I meant to be brave, honestly. But, you know? It’s okay to be scared, too.”

“Ah, and you would know because–?” The artist trailed off, a small smile on his lips.

“Because I’m scared right now, and everything is still okay.”

 

 

“So, you’re starting work again.”

The younger man nodded, lacing up one battered, black boot before turning to face Gerard over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“…Tonight?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I’m going back out tonight… ah, but staying here made me all pretty and less prostitute-y, so I don’t know how much I’ll actually be working,” Frank replied; and shrugged, returning to lace up his other boot. “Why you ask?”

The artist shook his head, and pretended to busy himself with something on the night stand next to him. He picked up the remote to the television on the far wall and pressed random buttons, even though the TV wasn’t actually on. “Well I’m wondering how you work.”

Frank finished lacing his other boot and turned around fully, raising a curious brow. “What do you want?” he purred, but his voice was cautious.

“No,” Gerard replied, before the younger man could think anything else. “I mean– augh, this is so hard–” He stopped then, set the remote down, and faced Frank entirely. The younger man’s brow was still raised, and he gave the noirette a contemplative look.

“What is your malfunction?” he asked; and leaned forward a little bit on his forearm, cheek pressed into his palm.

“Look at it this way,” the artist began, “I go to work Monday through Friday, on a nine-to-five job, excepting holidays and extra business, exedra, exedra. You, however…?” and he trailed off, leaving Frank to fill in the open space.

“Ah. Okay, here’s the deal. I go out at approximately 10:30 PM every evening, no exceptions to holidays; and I’m “home” at approximately 5 AM every morning,” the younger man explained. “So, I’ll most likely get to bed from 5 to…” He trailed off, counting on his fingers, “Well, 1:00 PM is an eight-hour sleep, so maybe around ten?” Frank bit his lip. “So, I leave for work at around the time you go to bed. Make sense?”

“Yeah.” The artist rubbed at his neck, and scrunched his face up a bit in thought. “Makes sense… but haven’t you thought about getting another job?”

“I’ve been working in prostitution since I was fifteen. I don’t really think I’m qualified for another job, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m sorry, I forget sometimes.” Frank shrugged then, and turned around to check the clock on the dresser next to him. 

“Speaking of work, I gotta go. But, I’ll be back before you know it…?” The younger man crawled forward ever so slightly, until he was only inches away from Gerard’s face. “I’ll see ya soon enough, eh?”

“Don’t get yourself hurt,” the artist warned, and shoved at his friend playfully.

“I’ll try not to get abducted by anymore rich, asshole artists off the street,” the younger man smirked, and pressed his nose just lightly to the artist’s, before hopping off the bed and making his way to the door. “G’night, Gee.” And then he was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's Thanksgiving. So, here's your special early Thanksgiving update.

“Ugh, I forgot how disgusting my job is,” Frank exclaimed out to no one, when he shuffled his way into Gerard’s apartment. He kicked off his shoes and took off his –Gerard’s– coat, letting it drop to the floor, as he had seen the artist do himself many times; and he made his way into the kitchen, and opened the fridge, taking a cup of already-made coffee from it.

 “I’m drinking your coffee,” he called, and he received a low moan in response. The younger man rolled his eyes and took a drink, before making his way down the hall and into Gerard’s room. “Wakey wakey, princess.”

 “Guh, Frank,” the noirette moaned, and buried his face into his pillow. “I don’t have to be awake for another three hours, fuck off.”

 “I just spent _seven_ hours fucking off, thank you very much,” the younger grinned; and he set his coffee cup down on the nightstand before stripping off his shirt. Gerard looked over at him out of one eye, before sighing and pressing his face back into his pillow.

 “You gonna shower first, right?”

 “Of course.” Frank stopped then, hesitant, and said, “Oh, because I’m taking off my clothes in here? Right, sorry…” and he rubbed at his face, and said, “Okay, just let me grab some stuff to change into.”

 “Your clean shit is on the dresser over there,” the artist grumbled, and hoped he was pointing in the right direction, “and you can borrow my Maiden shirt, you know, the really big one? Cos I know you like baggy clothes.”

 “Yeah, thanks,” Frank mumbled sheepishly, and grabbed the clothes before shuffling himself off to the bathroom.

 Gerard sighed to himself, and turned over, and tried to get some sleep before Frank came back from his shower.

 

 

 When Frank came back, the artist had just fallen into that awful kind of half-but-not-yet sleep that only ever happens five minutes out of a really good dream, and so he was twice as grumpy as he normally would have been; except that Frank was standing there with his stupid wet hair curled at the nape of his neck, in an Iron Maiden tee maybe seven sizes too big and off one of his shoulders, with stupidly accidental bedroom eyes– and so the artist just groaned, again, and scooted out of the middle of the bed so Frank could slide in beside him.

 “Did you have a nice shower,” he questioned sleepily; except that his voice was so thick it sounded more like a command. Frank yawned, as he climbed into the bed, and nodded.

 “I was bleeding,” he commented offhandedly, as if bleeding happened terribly often to him, and he was used to it. “I hate the fuckers that make me bleed.”

 Gerard didn’t really have it in him to give one of the awesome “it’s okay” speeches Frank always gave when he felt down, so he just pulled the younger man towards him and wrapped his arms around him, just as he used to do to his brother when they were younger. “I’m sorry, Frankie.”

 “Yeah, I know y’are,” the younger man murmured; and he pressed his face into the artist’s chest. “I’m sorry for wakin’ you up so damn early.”

 “S’fine,” the artist mumbled, and yawned, his eyes slipping shut. “Tell me about your job, Frankie.”

 “You don’t want to know about my job,” Frank laughed, somberly, but Gerard whined, sleepily.

 “I do. I mean, only if y’wanna talk about it, but–” He cut himself off with a yawn. “Jus’ ’till I fall asleep?”

 “Alrighty, you weirdo.” Frank yawned then, too, before continuing. “A lot of them were fat and balding; not the pretty kind of rich people.”

 “Mmm,” the artist hummed. “And who’s the pretty kind of rich people, then?”

 “You.” Frank paused then, and sighed, “But that’s not the point. Ah, there was this one guy, right? And– hell, he was into some weird shit. Gee, I don’t like my job.” But the artist was already asleep; his face pressed half into his pillow, cheek up against the younger man’s damp curls. “Gee?”

 Frank gave up after that, sighing quietly, and tucking his face into the older man’s neck. “Yeah,” he breathed softly, “Me too.”

 

 

 “Ugh, I don’t want to go into work today,” Gerard moaned, stretching his arms out before slumping back down into his soft cocoon of white comforter and sheets. Frank, whose face was currently somehow pressed under one of the pillows, supplied, “Then don’t.”

 “But… I think I have to?”

 “Aren’t you like, the boss?” Frank questioned tiredly, and turned so that he was facing the artist just slightly, face now out from under the pillow.

 “Well, yeah–”

 “Then I think you’re allowed days off,” the younger man said pointedly.

 “I guess… but what the Hell am I supposed to do for the rest of the day, then?”

 “What do you normally do on your days off?” Frank yawned, and nestled his face under the pillow once more.

 “Normally I’d take Linds out on a date, but that’s not happening.”

 “How long were you dating?”

 “Only two months. But, I mean Hell, I really liked her, you know?” Gerard looked down at Frank, who raised an eyebrow.

 “No? I don’t know, but– Yeah, I can imagine. Well look, I’m not your girlfriend, but maybe we can catch a movie later?” The younger man pushed himself up a bit on the pillows. “I dunno, one of my clients wouldn’t shut up making small talk, and he said there’s some weird classic horror marathon going on this whole week…”

“Okay, well we’re definitely going to that,” the artist grinned languidly. “I don’t wanna get up right now, though.”

 “Then go back to sleep,” Frank yawned. “You don’t _have_ to do shit today.”

 “I guess…”

 “Don’t guess. Trust me,” the younger man hummed. “It’s Heaven in this fucking bed, how do you ever leave?”

 “Because I have to,” Gerard laughed softly. Frank grumbled something intangible in response.

 “Well, not today you don’t. Today you can just stay right here.”

 

 

 “I’m exhausted,” the artist whined, when he finally slipped out of bed at roughly 1:00 PM. Frank looked at him over the top of his coffee cup and grinned.

 “I was smart. I brought the wake-up juice _into_ the bedroom,” he giggled. Gerard sighed, and continued his half-assed search through drawers of clothes for anything decent to wear.

 “Wake-up juice?” he laughed tiredly. “Uh-huh. And whose coffee was that in the first place?”

 “I told you I was taking it,” the younger man sighed, and he passed the mug off to the artist. “Here, have the rest. Unlike you, I embrace the morning with a smile, wake-up juice unneeded.”

 “You’re so weird,” the noirette muttered into the cup, and watched as the younger man struggled to pull on his jeans. “By the way, shirt’s stuck in the back,” he said, and motioned to himself on where Frank had pulled his pants up too high.

 “Oh, whatever.” He rolled his eyes and yanked the oversized shirt out from under the waistband of his jeans, letting it drop down to around his knees. “This is such a big shirt.”

 “I know, but you like big clothes,” the artist countered, and set the cup of coffee down so he could pull on his pants as well.

 “Right,” the younger man pressed, “but you’re not much bigger than I am…?”

 “Maybe I used to be a fatass.”

 “Not this fat!” Frank held the corners of the shirt out as far as they would go from his body. Gerard laughed, and said, “Yeah, not ever that fat.”

 “Ugh, why are we even getting dressed this early? I’m pretty sure that marathon thing doesn’t start ‘till late.”

 “You’re the one who put your pants on first?” Gerard sent the younger man a humored, albeit confused glance. “Plus, I always put on my clothes when I get up in the morning. Y’never know what you’re gonna have to end up doing.”

 “I guess…”

 “Well, when was the last time you went anywhere and did anything fun?”

 Frank contemplated this for a second, before answering, “Three? …Maybe?”

 “Three…?” The artist pressed. “Three what?”

 “Years.”

 “ _Oh_. Okay, so what do you want to do?” Gerard shut the drawer he was currently looking through and walked over to Frank, handing back the now 1/4 th filled coffee cup. “Here, by the way,” he said, and walked out of the bedroom.

 Frank looked confusedly down to the cup, and then after him. “What?”

 “What’dya wanna do?” came the muffled reply.

 “I don’t know, go to the park? What’s fun to do– obviously I don’t do “fun” very often,” the younger man pointed; and stepped over a pile of clothes, stumbling his way out of the bedroom.

 “Ah,” Gerard turned to him, hairbrush in hand, and bit his lip in thought. “We could go eat somewhere, we could go shopping–”

 “Yeah, shopping. Let’s do that– so I don’t gotta keep borrowing your clothes all the time,” the younger man agreed. “Okay, just let me grab my cash–”

 The artist made a noise of protest, and reached out to make grabby hands toward the younger man. “Ah, no you don’t. I’m paying for all your stuff, okay?”

 Frank whined. “ _Pity_ , Gerard,” but the noirette wasn’t having any of it.

 “Think of it as “I’m doing something nice for my friend”, then,” he countered; and continued on brushing his hair.

 “Fine,” Frank whined. “But I will find _some way_ to pay you back, eventually. I will, I swear to God–”

 “Your company is paying me back plenty.”

 “You _say_ that… but I know you don’t have like, endless money, Gee–”

 “So?” The artist turned then, after setting down his brush, and he shrugged. “I’d rather waste it on you,” he grinned; and stole the coffee mug back from Frank before making his way to the kitchen.


	6. Chapter 6

“And, I suppose that– oh, _Jesus_ , hide me.”

 The artist looked up, startled, from his to-go cup of coffee to his younger friend, who was flailing about seemingly unnecessarily. He let out a feminine squawk before spinning a full 180 on his heel and burying his face in Gerard’s chest, pulling the older man with him as he walked backwards into the coffee shop behind them.

 “What the heck, Frank?” Gerard looked down at the younger man, cocking a confused eyebrow.

 “I’m pretty sure that was one of my clients from last night,” the younger muttered, peeping out slowly and looking around the artist’s shoulder. “ _Oh thank God_ , he’s gone.”

 “Ah- I–” Gerard sputtered about for a bit, before settling on, “And this matters because…?”

 Frank straightened himself out, and then patted down the artist’s shirt, before gripping his arm and dragging him back out of the coffee shop. “It’s weird,” he complained, letting go of his arm as they continued to walk down the street. ““Oh, hello stranger whose name I never bothered to learn, you paid me fifty bucks to blow you in the back of your car last night, oh and is that your daughter right there? Your wife? How lovely. Well, continue on with your lovely day, Sir”, is a bit fucking awkward, don’t you think?”

 “Okay, yeah, that’s definitely– my brother?”

 “ _Your brother_?” Frank appalled, and rubbed at his face. “What?”

 “No, I mean–”

 “Gerard?”

 The noirette laughed nervously, turning slightly to the blonde man who stood before him. “Yeah. My brother.”

 “What are you doing _not in work_?” the blonde pressed, raising a curious eyebrow.

 “What are _you_ doing not in work?” But Mikey’s attention had been diverted to Frank, who stood awkwardly biting his thumbnail and watching the artist out of the corner of his eye for direction.

 “So this is…?”

 “Frank.”

 “Your prostitute.” Frank’s face hardened slightly and he looked to Gerard more for any guidance. The older man sent him a sympathetic plea before spitting out, “No, not _my_ prostitute.”

 “But he is one,” the blonde commented, and Frank frowned.

 “For your information–”

 “Mikey, stop being a dick,” Gerard sighed. The blonde held his hands up in mock submission.

 “Okay, chill. Ah, I gotta get going, I have a life and places to be,” the blonde man bit, “but– look, have you been taking your medication?”

 Gerard looked down at his feet.

 “Of _fucking_ course not.” Mikey ran a hand through his hair and huffed out, exasperatedly. When he looked at Frank next his eyes were free of any discomfort, replaced only by a silent plead. “You– listen, you gotta make sure he takes his meds, please? He gets bad, he gets _bad_ and– Ah, jeez, I gotta go. Just, please?” On that note, the blonde nodded to the younger man, pulled his brother into a quick one-armed hug, and jogged off down the street in the other direction.

 “So, he’s weird?” Frank offered, once he and the artist had begun to walk again.

 “He’s bipolar,” Gerard responded. “He doesn’t take his meds, either. Us Ways can be stubborn like that.”

 “Oh?” The pair walked in silence for a bit, before Frank spoke again. “So, what are your meds for?”

 “Manic-depression, anxiety, paranoia…”

 “Well, why did you stop taking them, then?” the younger man asked.

 The artist looked at Frank, and smiled sadly. “Because they took away my problems, and my problems make me who I am.”

 

 

 “So, I don’t think I’m going to be able to let you,” and the younger man huffed, setting town the precarious tower of clothes onto the purchase counter, “pay for all this.”

 “Too bad,” Gerard grinned; and he flashed his silver credit card at Frank before sliding it over the counter to the less-than-impressed saleswoman on the other side.

 “But _Gerard_ ,” Frank pouted, and let his shoulders sag down, jutting his bottom lip out. The artist just shrugged, and took his card back from the impatient salesgirl.

 “What? Plus, it’s nothing I wouldn’t have spent on myself eventually, anyway, if that makes you feel any better.”

 “Well, _no_ , but–”

 Gerard shrugged again, and led the way out of the shop and back out to the bustling New York streets. “Do you wanna go home before we catch the movie? My apartment’s just up the street.”

 The younger man nodded. “Uh, yeah. That’d be great, actually? I mean, borrowing your shirt is great and all,” Frank mentioned to his shoulder, “but I look like Flashdance. And these shoes have been about half a size too small ever since I can remember… It’ll be nice to wear things that fit,” he smiled, laughing slightly.

 Gerard just shrugged, said, “Flashdance was secretly epic,” and led the way to his apartment.

 

 

 “I look like a rock star,” Frank said, as he took in his appearance up and down in the full body mirror sitting it the corner of the artist’s room. “Like, “major drop-dead diva” gorgeous.” And he pouted at the mirror a bit, running one hand through his short-cropped hair. He turned to Gerard. “What do you think?”

 Gerard took in the younger man –and his rouge eyeshadow and ripped jeans; slasher-film-cut grey shirt and oil slick black Docs– and he hummed in approval. “Or a trashed teenage runaway, either works.”

 “What gives that appeal?” Frank looked down, before huffing in realization. “Is it my shirt? You can see so much of my stomach– I look like booze-d up frat boy meets vengeful bush.”

 The artist laughed. “Like the president or like the shrubbery?”

 “Both?”

 “Yeah, well anyway,” Gerard said, as he pushed the younger man out of the way of the mirror to access it himself, “I think you look fine. Maybe a bit–” and the artist cut himself off, turning to Frank and making a popping motion with his hands before returning his attention to his reflection, “but you know, good.”

 “Uh, thanks? I mean I certainly look…” Frank mimicked the noirette’s hand motions, ““poppy” next to you, but.”

 Gerard looked down at himself and his white Chucks, oversized blue tee, way too tight denim skinnies with the weird white flower embroidered on the butt (which had to be Mikey’s friend Pete’s, because there was no way the artist bought them _himself_ ); and he sighed, and shrugged. “Eh.”

 Frank laughed, and he gestured to himself flamboyantly. “First day of school,” and then to Gerard, “and last day of school.”

 “Whatever! It’s not in my line of work to look appealing,” the artist joked; and he grabbed his pencil eyeliner from off the dresser next to the mirror, and said, “But, I guess I’ll join you on the makeup, just this once.”

 “Good. Wouldn’t want little ol’ me to go lonely,” the younger man drawled sarcastically.

 “Quick personal question you don’t have to answer at all,” Gerard pressed, as he continued to put on his eyeliner, “but have you ever had a relationship?”

 “Had…? Like, what, like–”

 “So, not purely sexual, like your job– something where you went on dates, or held hands… did weird cutesy shit,” the artist filled in; and he set his eyeliner pencil down, and turned to Frank. “Good?”

 The younger man shot him a thumbs up. “Smokey,” he purred, and winked. “Ah, but relationships? I dunno… Ah,” and his face lit up, “there was this one girl, her name was Jamia. We were a “thing” before my mom passed… I used to bring roses to her door in between my teeth, all like a stupid cheesy teen movie; ah, and she would smile this great big smile and blush and…” Frank looked down then, and shrugged. “I really miss her. And– I didn’t properly break up with her, either… I just left. I left everyone– all my friends, my family, and her.”

 “You never got in contact?” Gerard asked.

 “A while back. She has a kid now… I don’t think she ever really forgave me for leaving like that– but I can’t blame her. After her, it was strictly business. There’s been cute girls in coffee shops, you know, and sometimes I think they pity me with their number on my mocha frappucino…” Frank looked up, and shot the artist a shrug. “But with the job I have, I’m in no place for a relationship anyway.”

 “Well keep an open mind, eh? The girl you bump into on the street could be like, “the one”,” Gerard smiled; and he walked to the door. “Ready to go?” he asked, turning to look over his shoulder at the younger man.

 “Yeah,” he called back, shooting a quick smile; which turned to a shy one to himself, as he muttered under his breath, “The one.”

 

 

 “So, that was the best horror marathon of my life, and I’m about to collapse on my feet.”

 Gerard laughed and ran a hand through his hair as he followed the younger man into his apartment. He took his jacket off and dropped it off on the floor on top of Frank’s before making his way to the bedroom.

 “It was pretty fucking great,” he agreed, wiping at the smudged traces of eyeliner that had somehow made their way onto his cheekbones. He turned to Frank after wiping off the last mark, and he said, “Did you see the special affects on some of the 90s ones? I swear they threw in a teen-thrill slasher just to fuck with us. Man, I mean ketchup would be more believable than–”

 “I don’t want to go back,” the younger man said suddenly, breaking the artist’s chain of ranting. “I don’t like the way they touch me.”

 “Well, but– Frank–” The noirette moved to his younger friend, sitting down on the bed beside him. “I don’t know what you want me to say, it’s your choice to go to work tonight–”

 “It feels different when they touch me,” Frank muttered; and he curled in on himself some. “From when you touch me… it’s different.”

 “Well, of course it’s different–”

 “Never mind,” the younger man sighed; and he sent Gerard a small smile. “Sorry. Creepy old men give me the chills sometimes–”

 “You know what?” the artist interrupted suddenly, and continued with, “I’ve decided that it’s not your decision; not tonight. You’re staying right here and we’re marathoning Star Wars, and I’ll make us hot chocolate and I’ll draw you something stupid, okay?” He leaned back on his hands and looked at Frank, smiling sheepishly. “I had a fucking great time today, Frankie, and… I’m not gonna ruin that by letting you go back out there, not tonight. Okay?”

 With that, the artist pulled Frank into a hug, smiling softly into the younger man’s brown curls; and Frank said, “See? You touching me… this is different.”

 “I’m different.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so miserably short cx They're all pre-written chapters, so.

“Dude, shut up. Han Solo is _not_ that attractive,” Frank laughed, and he shoved at the older man next to him.

 “Whatever,” Gerard retorted. “You’re just jealous of his luxurious mane. Ugh, flowing in the wind like that, Jesus _crimeny_.” And the artist put his hand to his forehead, feigning faint.

 The younger man rolled his eyes and said, “Shove off,” pushing at the noirette playfully. “Hey, but dude– do you have any more popcorn over there?”

 Gerard pretended to not hear the question.

 “Dude, you totally do, I can see it!” And Frank was crawling over the artist before he had finished his verbal observation. When he’d gotten to the other side of Gerard he grinned, claimed himself victorious, and crunched down loudly on a handful of kettle corn.

 “Dammit Frankie, there’s barely any left,” the artist whined, and he made grabby hands for the tub of popcorn. “Did you eat all the cheese kind?”

 “I ate none of the cheese kind, you sicko. The cheese kind is vomitous,” Frank mumbled over a mouthful of corn; and allowed the tub to be pulled from him.

 “For your information, the cheese kind is Heaven,” Gerard pouted, and threw a loose kernel at his younger friend’s face.

 “Yeah,” Frank said, dodging the kernel, “and Han Solo is hot.”

 “He _is_!” the artist whined, mouth full of popcorn.

 “You’re in denial,” the younger man grinned, and after discovering the kernel’s whereabouts, throwing it back to the noirette.

 “Doesn’t that only work the other way around?” Gerard laughed; and he handed the tub of popcorn back to the younger man. “Here, eat that, I don’t care,” he sulked. Frank gave another victorious whoop.

 “Love you too, Gee,” the younger drawled, and blew a kiss to the artist. Gerard just laughed, and rubbed at his eyes.

 “Man, I’m tired. How many of these have we seen?” he wondered aloud.

 “Why, getting tired of Solo already? Trading him in for the gold dude?”

 “Uh, you mean C-3PO, and no. I never get tired of Han and his flowing locks. I’m just tired, period.” The artist looked to Frank then, and said, “Ready to call it a night? I’ve got work in the morning, anyway…”

 “Sure dude, whenever you are,” Frank shrugged; and he moved the tin of popcorn down to the floor bedside. “I actually wanna take a shower first, ‘s that okay?”

 “Ah, yeah, go ahead– s’long as you don’t mind me brushing my teeth and shit–” The noirette shrugged. “I don’t care.” 

Frank had already hopped off the bed and begun making his way to the shower; so he called over his shoulder, “Not like you haven’t seen me naked before,” before leaving the room.

 Gerard huffed out a humored breath. “Right.” He grabbed the remote from off his nightstand and clicked off the TV, and grabbed one more handful of popcorn before following the younger man to the bathroom.

 

 

 “You’re home early,” was the first thing the artist heard, after he’d dropped off his coat and made his way to the living room, collapsing in defeat on the loveseat. In fact, he hadn’t even noticed Frank in the kitchen until the younger man spoke.

 “We were having server difficulties, and the repair… whatsit guy said that he could get it fixed in about an hour.” Gerard turned and reached over the couch out to Frank. “I figured I might as well go home instead of staying there doing nothing– and– oh, c’mere–”

 “Huh?” The younger man looked up from the countertop where he had been cutting lettuce. “I’m fixing you a sandwich… oh, do you want a sandwich?”

 “Oh, yeah thanks, uh…” the artist trailed off, biting his lip and muttering, “Dammit Frankie, I can’t remember– oh! So, my mom wants us _this_ weekend–”

 “Today’s Friday, right?”

 Gerard nodded. “Yeah.”

 “So, we’re leaving tomorrow, then?” The artist shook his head, and Frank raised an eyebrow. “No? I thought–”

 “Actually, we’re leaving tonight.”

 “Oh?” Frank leaned his arm over the counter, passing the sandwich to the artist, who took it gratefully. “Here ya go.” The younger man moved around then, depositing himself onto the couch next to Gerard. “So when are we going?”

 “In a few hours, I think,” the noirette mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich. “Hey– why aren’t you eating?”

 “Ah, m’not hungry.”

 “You sure? Weren’t you actually making this for yourself before I came home?” The artist raised an eyebrow, holding out the sandwich. Frank blushed, if only just slightly.

 “Actually, no. Sorry, is that too housewife-y for you?” the younger man laughed. Gerard just shrugged, and took another bite of the sandwich.

 “I appreciate it; I just want you to remember that you don’t need to earn your keep around here.”

 “Well, maybe I was just doing it because I wanted to, eh?” Frank shrugged too, then, and turned just a bit more towards the artist before asking, “So, how long are we staying at your mom’s?”

 “We’ll be coming home Sunday night– so pack for two days, I think? That’s right, right…? Two days?”

 “Yes,” Frank laughed, “that’s right.” He stood up then. “Okay, well I’m gonna go– oh, she lives in…. wait, do I actually know where your mom lives?”

 “Jersey,” was the noirette’s muffled reply.

 “Right. Okay, so pack for muggy, smoggy, sunshine and rainbows,” the younger man laughed; before turning on his heel to the bedroom.

 “Oh, and don’t forget the side of thunderstorms,” Gerard called after him, a small smirk playing at his lips. “And thank you for the sandwich!”


	8. Chapter 8

“Okay so Frank?”

 The artist turned to his companion in the shotgun seat of the black ’97 BMW, quirking one brow as he stilled the ignition and waited for a response.

 “Ah?”

 “I’m just warning you now– my mom can be a bit… ugh what’s the word, forward?”

 Frank snorted. “Yes, I know, you’ve mentioned this before.”

 Gerard sighed. “Okay well, then just know that I warned you,” he said, as he slid out of the car. The younger man followed suit, shaking his head and saying, “Man, I don’t see what could be _so_ bad,” as they walked up the driveway.

 “Right, well–” but before the artist could get anything more out, he was cut off by a very Frank-like squeak, and he silently hoped that his mother wasn’t currently breaking anything in there.

 The blonde woman pulled back from her bone-crushing attack hug to the younger man –who Gerard could tell had clearly not expected this- and she turned to the artist, smiling warmly for only a few more seconds before she slapped him upside the head.

 “You don’t call me for days on end, I have to hear everything from your idiot kid brother! I swear, you’re absolutely useless, Gerard,” she sighed, before turning back to Frank and holding out a hand. “Hi, I’m Donna.”

 Frank looked to Gerard nervously, who only shrugged and mouthed back, “I warned you.”

 

 

 “So, Frank, what do you do for a living?” And Gerard was at least ninety percent sure he’d told Frank he could answer however he wanted, or not at all, but the artist couldn’t stand the stressed look on the younger man’s face for maybe more than five seconds, and so before Frank even had a chance to speak, Gerard blurted out, “He’s an intern. Uh, at my gallery.”

 Frank raised a perfectly manicured brow, looking back and forth from Gerard and the artist’s mother, seeing how it all played out.

 “Oh, you didn’t tell me you got a new intern,” Donna said thoughtfully, sounding vaguely interested. “Is that how you met him, then?”

 “Yeah, um, yeah. He– we– ah, uh?” and the artist looked to Frank, who only sent him what could be best described as his ‘you got yourself into this mess, not me’ face.

 “Mhm,” Donna muttered in reply, attention mostly focused on the string beans she was currently heating up over the stove. “You know, I would know these things if you ever called me,” she said, sounding mock offended.

 “I’m sorry, Ma,” Gerard sighed exasperatedly. “I’ve just been really busy, and–”

 “Just leave poor little old me to worry about by myself, only hearing about you through your brother– who, for your information, is actually doing quite well,” Donna said, breaking her faux mourning to scold at the artist once more.

 “Yeah, I know, I eat dinner with him once a week.”

 “Yet you never come visit me?” She sounded appalled.

 “Well you know Mikey, it’s hard to say, “No,” to him over almost everything, because he’ll just find a way anyway.” Gerard scrunched up his nose at that, and muttered under his breath, “A way anyway?” sounding mildly confused.

 Donna turned to Frank then, and smiled softly. “See, now when he starts talking to himself, I know he’s a lost cause,” she laughed gently, before asking the both of them, “So, how long have you two been together now, anyway?”

 “…any– what? Huh, sorry?” the artist questioned, and it was Frank’s turn to scrunch his face up in confusion.

 “That’s what Michael told me, anyway,” she shrugged as she pulled the beans off the stove and began dishing them out equally onto three plates.

 “Um, Mrs. Way, we’re not–” Frank tried, but Donna dismissed him with a hand wave.

 “Oh, pssht, don’t worry about all that around me, dear. I’ve always supported my son’s alternative lifestyle,” she said cheerily.

 “Ma, don’t call it that,” the artist whined, and then, “Wait, what?  Mom, I’m straight. I’ve only ever had girlfriends–?”

 “Honey, a mother _knows_ ,” Donna pressed. “It doesn’t matter what you have done, anyway, it’s what you will do,” she said smugly, before somehow managing to cart all three plates to the dining room.

 “ _Mom_ ,” Gerard whined. “He’s not– I’m– we–”

 “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Gerard.”

 “I _know_ , but– ugh.” The artist eventually gave up, slumping down into one of the chairs set at the table. He looked up to Frank then, wearily, and shrugged. “This is your fight, man.”

 Frank grinned at that, albeit a bit mischievously, and finally, in answer to the blonde woman’s first question, said, “Ah, it’s been about,” and he took the seat next to the artist, grin still present on his face, “…two weeks? Is that right, Gee?”

 Gerard looked at him, a mix of shock and confusion, and he rubbed at his face, sighing deeply. “Wuh?”

 “Yeah, two weeks,” the younger man said then, sounding more sure of himself. “I started working as his intern about a month ago,” Frank continued, and Gerard sat back and thought about how it had really been an entire month since he’d brought Frank in. An entire month. A month was a long time.

 “Oh, that’s wonderful,” Donna said softly, the same level of mild interest as from before. “What happened to Karen, dear?” she asked Gerard then.

 “Ah, you know what, she, uh, she quit. Something about,” Gerard waved his hand exaggeratedly, “uh, something about finding her true passion in life, and– um–”

 Frank snorted under his breath; Gerard kicked at him under the table.

 “Oh. Well, then.” Donna paused then, before asking, “So what happened to that one girl then, Lizzie? Mikey told me she broke up with you?”

 “Ah–” The artist rubbed at his face and sighed again, slumping down lower into his chair. “Yup, yeah. That’s– okay, yup. Uh-huh. Alright, um– Ma?”

 “Hmm?” Donna looked up from her plate of green beans.

 “Don’t you think you’re forgetting… something?” the noirette said, and gestured to the nearly empty table.

 “Oh! I knew I’d left the chicken in the oven–”

 “Chicken?” Gerard whined, distraught, while Frank muttered, “Oven? I didn’t see a– oh, was it that thing on the wall, then? Gerard?”

 “Yeah, and the mashed potatoes were heating up too– chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans– you used to love that as a kid?” Donna looked confused.

 “Okay, yeah, and I  _do_ , still– but Frankie’s a vegetarian, Ma, and–”

 “Oh, so you can’t eat meat?” She looked at Frank expectantly. “Well, then how do you–”

 “ _Wow_ , Mom, _please_ let’s not go there, okay? Inappropriate on every level,” Gerard interrupted, before the blonde woman could make any oblivious sexual innuendo. “Not necessary,” the artist stressed.

 “Does she really think that?” Frank asked, humored, when Donna had made her way back into the kitchen.

 Gerard only sank much further down in his chair, and muttered pathetically, “Don’t talk to me.”


	9. Chapter 9

In all that the younger man had expected, after seeing how the artist lived lavishly in white-walled rooms with dust only tucked away in two corners and an occasional sock on the floor –maybe– he most certainly didn’t expect this.

The basement was filthy and dark –only one corner window brought in a small beam of light from the setting sun outside, and what was emitting from the cracked lightbulb that hung over the center of the room was dull and fleeting. The floorboards were snapped and creaky to even the lightest step, the floor itself covered in old broken glass and dirty clothes. There was a closet along the far side, one door placed on the adjacent wall, having come off its hinge; and only two items total of furniture. One was an old, worn down dresser– with half the drawers missing, and pill bottle contents and snapped apart razors littering the top of it; the other was a queen bed, dead center in the middle– with one pillow, stained sheets, and a comforter that was making its way into a pool on the floor.

The artist cleared his throat and Frank blinked, drawn back to the present by his older friend. Gerard looked over at him then, jaw set tight despite trembling just the tiniest, before saying, “Home sweet home.”

“Oh, Gee…”

The artist took a bold step into the room, rustling some torn up magazine page and kicking away CD shards in the process, before turning to face Frank completely. “Well,” he said abashedly. “Come in.”

The younger man muttered, “Shit, Gerard,” but followed the artist just the same, taking the last step down tentatively into the basement. Gerard laughed emptily, shuffling more junk aside until he reached the empty island that was his bed. He sat down on it then, after smoothing down the sheet pointlessly, and laughed again– or tried, the noise that came out of the artist was more of a strangled groan.

“Gee, what’s–”

“Xanax, Valium, some sort of depression meds and razors when nothing else worked– is that what you were asking about, or the glass on the floor? That’s probably from the window, the darker stuff is from bottles of Jack…”Frank breathed in sharply; before he moved to sit beside the artist on the bed. He leaned his head against the older man’s shoulder and let a hand run up and down his arm. He sighed out, a harsh puff of air which was shortly followed by an unnecessary, “I’m so sorry.” His voice sounded much louder than normal to nearly empty air.

“Why? This is still my home.”

Frank couldn’t find one single thing to say back to that– so he just pushed at the artist’s arm, softly, until Gerard finally gave way, falling back onto the bed and taking the younger man with him.

“It’s okay, you know. It’s okay to be scared,” the artist said after a while, outright to no one in particular. Frank looked at him, strangely, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m not scared of this; I’m not scared of you, Gee.”

“I know,” the noirette said quietly, “but I am.”

Once again, the younger man couldn’t find a single thing to say; so he leaned up and over Gerard and, taking a deep breath for good measure, pressed his lips ever so softly to the corner of the artist’s mouth– and he just hoped that was words enough.

 

“Shit, it’s so cold in here.” Gerard burrowed further under the old –and somehow still puffed– Star Wars comforter, burying his face in Frank’s neck, clinging to the younger man for warmth.

“You having fun staring at my neck?”

“You have a tattoo here. I’ve never noticed this before, when did you do this?”

Frank looked down strangely, but answered all the same, “Probably around the same time I realized I’d never have a real job– why’s your face down there, really?”

“Maybe if I can’t see the outside world, it will cease to exist.”

The younger man laughed. “Does that mean I cease, too?”

“Hell no,” the artist snorted. “Fuck if you think you belong anywhere but right here, anyway.”“Right here in this basement? Yeah–”

“No. No, fuck this basement, the only thing that belongs here is sick memories of a kid who didn’t think he was gonna make it, not really. We don’t belong here– but, we belong. Does that make any sense?” Gerard looked up hopefully, pulling away from the younger man’s neck to meet his eyes. He only received a laugh in response.

“I think you’re tired, Gee. Trust me when I say that the past makes your mind sick in funny ways– and you have no fucking clue what you’re saying–”

“We belong,” the artist repeated, a bit of a stubborn tone to his voice. He reached out blindly in the darkness until he found Frank’s hand, and linked it with his own.

“I got that part– tell me what you mean when you say that, though,” Frank countered, and he gave a gentle squeeze to the artist’s hand. 

“I mean… I mean…”

Eventually Gerard gave up– and he sighed, “I don’t know what I mean.”

The younger man smiled almost sadly. “Well, when you figure it out? Tell me– and I promise, no matter what, I’ll listen.”


	10. Chapter 10

“I miss it.”

Gerard stretched one arm out, and nuzzled into the younger man’s shoulder, looking up at him with big, curious eyes. “What?” he asked softly, turning to face Frank more.

“Playing,” the younger replied, looking down at the artist. “Every day I’m not and every day I am. I have a song I wanna show you, whenever I can.”

“Oh?” Gerard sat up then, and his eyes scanned the basement. “I have an electric in here somewhere, will that work?”

“Dude, how many guitars do you have?” Frank had sat up too by now and was clinging to the artist’s arm, eyes searching with mildly more amusement.

“More than I need,” the noirette said back, and then, “She’s in the closet–” Frank interrupted with a laugh, and the artist got up to fetch the guitar.

“She’s so pretty,” Frank said when the older man returned with the guitar. Its body was black but there were red nail polish splotches in the bottom corner, and some washed gray color text that read, “XO Mikey.”

“Yeah, she was a present from my brother, as you can probably tell,” and Gerrad pointed to the cursive words. “He thought I was gonna be really big one day– well, here you go,” and the artist handed the guitar to the younger man.

Gerard watched as Frank fawned over the guitar for a while longer, before saying, “So, this song you wanna show me?”

“Shit, yeah. I wrote it for Jai.. uh, before mom died. I never got to play it for her, actually. You’re,” Frank paused then, almost appearing to blush. He looked sad, in a strange way. “You’re the first person who’s, uh, actually heard it. Besides me. But, um,” he turned pink again, “that’s obvious. Uh, yeah so… here goes.”

Gerard sat down on the bed next to the younger man, and watched him carefully; the way his fingers curled around the neck of the guitar, and how he dipped his head almost embarrassedly as he began to play, and began to sing.

His voice was muffled at first, raw and kind of scratchy, from toomuchnotenough use. But Gerard could make out most of the words; and when the younger man got to the chorus, and his voice gained more confidence, the artist smiled.

“ _…with a boom box out in the street; and I’ll be there if you need someone, even if he isn’t me…_ ” Frank caught the artist’s eye, bit his lip and looked down, and sang the next verse louder, and clearer.

“ _It reminds me of all the stupid things I’d like for us to share, but I don’t care._ ” Frank finished the song and looked up expectantly, albeit a bit nervously, and asked, “So what did you think?”

“I think you’re adorable,” the artist said seriously. “And I think that she would have loved it.”

“Yeah…” Frank’s hands curled nervously around the guitar again. “Well, I guess it’s not really for her anymore, you know?” He looked up at the artist then, and smiled shortly. “Someone else’s opinion is much more important to me now.”

 

 

“I wanna draw you.”

“What?”

Gerard looked over and smiled at the young man, guitar still in tow. “I  want to do something I don’t have to sell, something for the fucking hell of it; and I wanna be able to give it to you. I wanna capture the broken boy on my doorstep in the rain, who could somehow still let the sun shine through.”

“You’re fucking cheesy,” Frank giggled, and hugged the electric. “I’m nothing, don’t draw me. It’s not worth it, draw something beautiful.”

“You’re a dork, and I’m gonna draw you no matter what you say, so deal with it. Gimmie adjectives?”

“What?” Frank looked up from the guitar. “Why? Aren’t adjectives for writing?”

“Well yeah,” the artist said with a ‘duh’ in his voice. “But they help me draw too. Describe yourself to me.”

“Um, okay? Short. Uh, bad hair. Pox scar I fucking hate–”

“Not physical things. Words that you think fit you,” Gerard sighed.

“Um? Dude, I don’t know, what would you say?”

“About you, or myself?”

“Me,” Frank stated, and crossed his arms. “What words do you associate me with?”

“Okay,” the artist began. “Well, passionate. Energetic. Happy.”

“Broken,” Frank interrupted. “Liar. Hypocrite.”

“Fun, and lively, and optimistic,” Gerard continued, ignoring the younger man.

“Worthless, stupid, whore.”

“You’re not,” Gerard protested. Frank looked blankly at him. “Okay, well then you describe me.”

“That’s easy, though! Kind, open, dreamer, hopeful, playful, beautiful–”

“But I don’t think that about myself, Frank. Do you see? If I was in your place, I would do the same thing. Addict. Waste of space. Asshole. Drunk, idiot, broken. Do you get that what you see isn’t what everyone else sees?”

“Well–”

“That’s why I’m gonna draw you,” the artist said softly, and turned back to the sketchpad he had open and waiting. “To make you see what I see; because I know you don’t. Because you proved you don’t.”

“Well, how am I supposed to do that for you?” Frank cried. “You’ll never see you the way I see you. Fuck, man I have no way of showing that to you–”

“Then turn me into a song. That’s something you can do, right? I won’t see it… but I’ll listen. I promise.” The artist picked up his pencil then, and began sketching lines; and Frank shut up.

 

 

“You know, you’ve seen me naked–”

“Yes,” the artist intoned. “I have–”

“But I haven’t seen you without a shirt, or anything. I don’t think that’s fair,” Frank pouted, and he looked up at Gerard from where he hung off the edge of the artist’s bed.

“I have stretch marks,” the noirette replied, not missing a beat. “Plus, you take off your clothes as part of your job, you’re used to it. I don’t.”

“So? We have to be even,” the younger pouted.

“We don’t have to be even to coexist.” The artist rolled his eyes, and he got up and sat next to Frank, who pulled himself into an upright position, before tackling the older man. 

“We do,” he said, a ‘duh’ tone to his voice.

“I’m not flattering, trust me–” But Gerard could see that the younger man wouldn’t give up, and so he sighed, and said, “Ugh, fine, you little shit,” shoving Frank away lightly and rolling his eyes once more, as he pulled his shirt over his head.

He asked, softly, “Happy now?” and flinched when he felt Frank’s hands brush the old marks on his waist, the ones that carried down to his hips.

“You did these to yourself, too.” It was a question, but it wasn’t in the form of one– the artist knew the answer was already painfully obvious.

“Yeah. Scars, woo. Just like the stretch marks,” and he lifted his arm up, and ran his finger along the marks there, “and this stupid– whatever, fat.” He gestured vaguely to his stomach, and Frank rolled his eyes.

“Wanna know a secret? Nobody’s perfect,” the younger man said then, and leaned his head on the artist’s shoulder. “You feel better if I took mine off, too?”

“What are we, five?” the noirette began to respond, but changed to a small, murmured, “Yes,” when he saw that Frank was being completely serious.

The younger man flashed him a grin, and pulled his shirt up over his head, dropping it with the artist’s. “We’re getting naked together. This is an experience.”

“Whatever. Come here.” Gerard pulled the younger man down. “You don’t have anything to worry about, anyway.”

“Bullshit.” Frank cuddled into the artist. “I’m bruised and scratched all the time from clients.”

“Yeah, but you still look _good_. Or, well. You know. Whatever.” Gerard hid his face in the younger man’s shoulder. “You’re warm.”

Frank laughed. “Yeah, I guess I am?” He let one arm come around the artist then, pulling him closer. “Are you all cold, now that I made you take your shirt off?” he mocked playfully.

“Yes,” Gerard grunted. “I’m cold and exposed– all vampire pale and fucking _fat_ , how do fat people even _get_ cold? Of course that would only happen to me–”

“Because you aren’t,” Frank pointed out. “You’re not overweight, you’re barely even mildly chubby, stop complaining and let me hug you in peace.” He pressed his nose to the artist’s forehead. “Plus, vampire pale is kinda cool, you know. If you dig the out past midnight kind of thing.”

“I never leave the house.”

“You do have a job.”

“Oh.” Gerard looked actually taken aback for a moment. “Yeah, it’s easy to forget that in this place. I only remember being a fucked up, useless teenager.”

“Was that fucked up, useless teenager with a totally hot prostitute?” Frank laughed jokingly, but his voice was kind, like his words held deeper meaning.

“Um, no obviously.”

“Well then that’s how you know that this is different. You’re different now, Gee. We’re different. It’s gonna be okay, right?” He pressed his face into the artist’s hair. “S’all gonna be fine.”

“Says the boy who jumped to the boy who slit his wrists,” Gerard said sadly. Frank just hugged him closer.

“Well, we’re here now, aren’t we?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter and I'm sorry for that, I think a lot of the chapters will be a bit shorter from now on because this is the point at which I've stopped having chapters prewritten. This one's gotta be like, the shortest so far. But big things happen in it, so I hope that makes up.

“Truth or dare?”

The artist’s hand stilled in the younger man’s hair and he snorted, humored. Frank stopped tracing his fingers over Gerard’s chest, and he raised an eyebrow, and pouted, “What?”

“Are we five?” the artist mocked; but his voice was soft, and he continued to run his hands through Frank’s hair. The younger man resumed drawing invisible patterns on the noirette’s bare chest. “Fine, I guess– but I don’t want to move.”

“So I’ll take that as a truth, then?” Frank smirked, and looked up at the artist playfully, before burring his face in the older man’s neck.

“Yeah. Truth.”

“What was your first impression of me?”

“Mine?” Gerard looked down at Frank’s mop of brown, slightly curled hair. The younger man nodded. “Well, shit. You were wet– I think I was scared of you, honestly. For a second I’d thought maybe I was losing my mind, and all of a sudden some short, sopping punk kid is like, _right there_. But, I dunno. I had a damn different feeling about you, I’ll tell you that. I just don’t know what.” The artist shrugged. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Frank grinned, and Gerard rolled his eyes.

“Lazy-ass.”

“No, you’re just comfy, and really fucking warm.”

The artist sighed. “Okay, hmm. First kiss?”

Frank bit his lip. “Haven’t had one.”

“Sorry, what?”

The younger man laughed then. “I haven’t had one. I mean, I loved Jai with all my fifteen-year-old self had, but I never kissed her. I dunno why… and all my clients– well, if the girl I loved never got a kiss from me, why should they?”

“I guess that makes sense, but still. Never? Jeez, Frankie…” Gerard giggled, and Frank sent him a joking glare. “Okay, okay. Fine. Uh, truth. Again.”

“Figures,” Frank sing-songed, smiling lightly at the artist’s faux annoyance. “Okay. Ever kissed a boy?”

“Drunk? Yeah. Sober, nah. I have this friend Bert who I used to go around with a lot, back when I was involved in the party scene. I kissed him, sure.” Gerard stretched one arm out over his head, the other wrapping tighter around the younger boy’s waist. “Truth or dare?”

Frank muttered something along the lines of, “I can’t believe this, we really are five,” but he smiled and laughed, “Truth.”

“Do you want to be kissed?” The artist cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes. Truth or dare?”

Gerard pretended to contemplate this. “Dare.”

“Kiss me.”

The artist pulled Frank up slightly, so the younger man was hovering over him, and he sat up just enough so that their noses nearly brushed; and he leaned forward, and pressed his parted pastel lips to the younger man’s, moving them ever-so-softly until he coaxed some sort of response.

Frank wrapped his arms around the artist’s neck and pulled himself up, and slotted his lips tentatively against Gerard’s, moving them languidly. He could feel the artist smile against his lips just barely, before he pulled the younger man completely into his lap, wrapping his arms around his waist and bringing him closer.

He opened his mouth just slightly and Frank followed, leaning forward and deepening the kiss. He ran his hands down Gerard’s neck and to the hemline of his shirt, which he tugged on lightly as the kiss became more frantic, and he began to pant lightly.

They pulled away a short while later, when air became too much a necessity, and the artist giggled, “Shit, Frank,” pressing one more not-so-innocent kiss to the younger’s lips before letting himself lie back on the bed again, tucking Frank under his arms and closing his eyes, humming contentedly.

Frank pressed his face into the older man’s neck then, and let out a shaky breath, and said, “Yeah. Shit.”


	12. Chapter 12

When Gerard woke up the next morning, he stretched; and as his arm hit the emptiness of a cold pillow and tousled sheets, he realized he was alone.

This wasn’t unnerving in the slightest to him; he knew sometimes Frank got up in the middle of the night to sit and think to himself. But, upon further inspection, Gerard realized that Frank wasn’t in the room with him at all. In fact, all that stared back were ripped posters off cold basement walls, and a chair with more than a few articles of dirty clothes hanging off the back, seeming to weigh it down in the wrong direction.

Gerard sat up, then, and ran a hand through his greasy, tangled hair. “Frank?” he called out, even though he didn’t expect a response–the younger man was obviously nowhere in the room. _That_ worried him, a little bit.

He pushed himself up off the bed, and shoved his sweatshirt sleeves up to his arms–the one that he’d put on sometime in the night because he’d been cold; he was sure Frank had been there then, content as ever curled up into the artist’s side. He made his way up the basement stairs and was relieved, a bit, when he could hear his mother’s singing coming softly down the hall from the kitchen.

“Ma?” he asked as he walked in, still running a hand through his hair, attempting to get the dirty strands of it to stay in one place out of his eyes. “Have you seen Frank?”

“Hm?” Donna stopped humming, and turned away from the stove to her son. “Yes, this morning, I did. He said he was going out to think, I believe. He said he’d be back before you woke… but that was at least an hour ago. I don’t know where he is… why, is he not back yet?”

Gerard shook his head. “No,” he said slowly. “I haven’t seen him… oh, good Lord, he can’t just run off like that–are you sure he didn’t say where he was going?”

“Nope,” Donna hummed. “Sorry, kiddo. But hey, he’ll be back soon enough, right?” Donna trailed off as she saw her son was getting a bit flustered; he appeared to be searching for his car keys.

“I’m just gonna go out and check if I can find him,” the artist said, once he had the keys in tow. “I’m just–I just want him to be safe, ma.” He walked up to Donna then, and placed a kiss to her forehead, and said, “I’ll be back soon, okay? I just gotta make sure he’s safe.”

 

 

 

Gerard pulled his sweatshirt sleeves down as soon as he stepped into the cold New Jersey air; and he made his way to his car where he just sat for a while, thinking about where Frank could have gone.

In the end he decided that he really had no idea where his younger friend could have run off to; but he hoped he hadn’t gone far, because Gerard was already worried enough that he was missing from five feet around the house.

He put the keys in the ignition and started the car up, and backed out of his mother’s driveway, all the while still wondering where Frank could have gone. He decided he’d drive around the few surrounding streets and, if he couldn’t find the other man then, that’s when he would start to worry.

But soon enough, worry was creeping back up into the artist’s mind anyway. He’d already driven for a while, while finding nothing, and it seemed that that was how it was going to stay. He pulled up along the length of sidewalk by the Belleville cemetery to stop and think, and just as he was about to give up all hope and start asking the neighbors if they’d “seen this man”, he saw someone out of the corner of his eye, standing over one of the gravestones in the cemetery.

It was Frank.

Gerard pushed himself out of the car, not bothering even to shut the door, and jogged past the cemetery gates, calling Frank’s name as he did so. The younger man turned around when Gerard was about twenty feet away, and he smiled sadly, and said, “Oh, Gerard, I’m sorry. I was supposed to be back by now, but…” He trailed off and looked down to the gravestone at his feet. It read, very clearly in nice, bolded letters: Linda Iero.

“Oh, Frankie,” the artist sighed, and moved to wrap his arms around the younger man. “Hey, I was just a bit worried, that’s all. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything…” he trailed off as he too looked down at the gray stone, watching out of the corner of his eye as a tear dripped down Frank’s nose, and landed on the soft soil beneath them.

“It’s okay, I– I didn’t mean to take this long. I just haven’t seen her in ages, y’know? Eight years. I had to tell her I was sorry… eight years worth of shit to say can take up a long time.” Frank bit his lip, and sighed, and he leaned in to the artist’s warmth, and said, “I told her about you. I told her about the job, and the jump, and our kiss and how I’m so sorry for not being momma’s little boy anymore–and it was hard, Gee, it was so hard, but she needed to know. I haven’t seen her since the funeral… eight fucking years.”

“Frankie, it’s gonna be okay, trust me.” The artist pressed his face into the younger man’s hair, and sighed. “Trust me, your mom loves you no matter what, and she’s so proud of you because you’re so strong, Frankie, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met and I don’t know where I’d be right now had I not found you. You’re so important to me, kid, and I know your mom has to see that. It’s too big for her not to.” Gerard pushed a strand of hair from Frank’s eyes, and pressed his nose against the other’s forehead. “You mean so much to me, you don’t even know.”

“Can we go home, Gee?” the younger man asked, his voice quiet and muffled against Gerard’s throat. The artist nodded, and he pulled away from Frank just enough to leave the boy breathing room; but their hands still remained linked as Frank said goodbye to his mother, as they climbed into the car, and then as they said goodbye to Gerard’s mother early, heading back to New York because that’s where they belonged. They belonged home.


	13. Chapter 13

“I don’t want to get up today.”

 Frank shifted up on his forearms, the white sheets slipping down to his waist so goose bumps rose on his exposed skin; and he brushed a loose strand of hair behind his ear and turned and looked down at Gerard, whose face was buried into his pillow, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

 Gerard didn’t say anything at first, nuzzling his face more into his pillow as a low, broken whine escaped from his throat. So Frank lay down next to the artist, again, and wrapped his arm around the older man’s back; and pressed his nose into Gerard’s neck and said, “You okay?”

 “I’m fine,” the artist laughed; and when he turned around to face Frank, there were clear tear-tracks stained down his cheeks.

 Frank furrowed his eyebrows and cupped the artist’s face, and said, “Hey, hey it’s okay, what’s wrong? C’mon, Gee, please?” The younger man leaned in and pressed his nose to the other’s forehead, and sighed, “It’s okay…”

 “I wanna die, Frankie,” the artist choked out; and the words cut through the younger man’s gut like knives. “God, I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

 “Gee...?”

 “Please, please I don’t wanna be here anymore. God, I don’t–”

 “Please don’t say that,” Frank begged, holding the artist closer to himself. “God, Gee, it’s gonna be okay, okay? I’m here, I’ve got you and I’m here.” Frank’s voice shook and he bit his lip, praying he didn’t reduce to a tearing mess as well.

 “I feel so sick, Frankie. I just– I don’t wanna be… here, I–”

 The artist was cut off as Frank leaned down and pressed their lips together, holding the older man’s face to his and hoping that somehow he could get something through with the kiss.

 When he finally pulled away, Gerard was still crying; but the sadness was gone from his eyes, if only somewhat, because what Frank had tried to say had come through.

 

 

 “You wanna talk about it?”

 Gerard laughed, and he looked down at Frank; the younger man was busy peppering slow kisses up the scar on the artist’s forearm. “No, not really.”

 “That’s okay.” Frank smiled softly against the artist’s skin. “Do you want me to stop?”

 “No, not really.”

 “So you like it?” the younger man asked, drawing his voice out teasingly. Gerard scoffed, and put a hand over his face.

 “Yeah, sure. Whatever, Frankie.”

 “I’m just trying to make you smile,” Frank sighed, and pressed his forehead to the artist’s arm. “You scared me, earlier.”

 “Yeah, well I’m surprised I hadn’t broken down earlier. That’s what happens when you don’t take your meds. Oh, Mikey’s gonna kill me…” Gerard rubbed at his face and sighed, and looked down at Frank sadly.

 “Why don’t you take your meds then, Gee? They’re supposed to help you…”

 “I’ve told you. My problems make me who I am.” The artist shrugged.

 “But that can’t be good for you mentally,” Frank countered, sitting up to face the older man. “I want you to be okay, why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

 “I had a dream, okay?” Gerard sighed again. “That’s it, a bad dream. And, I am, most of the time. I’m okay. You make it okay, but– It was just a dream. I get them all the time. I’ll be fine. I should be at work… God, I would have fired myself ages ago.”

 “You shouldn’t be anywhere but right here where I can take care of you. And, don’t you dare say that’s too much. You know what you’ve done for me.” The younger man bit his lip, and looked at Gerard with big eyes. “I owe you my life for that.”

 “You don’t owe me anything–”

 “Shut up.”

 “Or what?” the artist snorted. “You’ll make me?”

 “I’ll make you something, Gerard Way, and you better watch it if you don’t wanna find out what that is.”

 “Oh, but what if I do?”

 Frank rolled his eyes. “Be careful what you wish for,” he laughed, and then said, slowly, “Curiosity killed the cat.”

 “Mhm, yeah it did,” Gerard smirked; and he pulled the younger man up over him, holding around his waist, and said, “But satisfaction brought him back.”

 “Didn’t your momma ever tell you to watch your mouth?” Frank purred, and he gasped quietly when Gerard’s hands gripped his hips tighter.

 “Hmm, I can’t recall. Maybe you should watch it for me?” The artist leaned in then, and had almost pressed his lips to the younger man’s before Frank stopped him, holding up a finger as he said, “You don’t want to do this.”

 “Well, maybe I do.”

 “Well, this morning you wanted to die.” Frank sighed, and pulled away, and said, “Gee, I want you to be happy, I really do. But, you’re sad right now. That’s okay, it’s okay to be sad, but– Sometimes we made stupid decisions when we’re sad; and that’s okay, too, but I’d rather not–” The younger man cut himself off again, and sighed again.

 “Frank, I’m not gonna regret…” Gerard trailed off, losing his confidence with each word. “I’m–”

 “You sound so sure,” the younger man said, sadly. “Look, it’s okay–”

 “No, you know what?” Gerard looked at Frank determinedly. “I am sure. I mean, in the long run I’m really not but right now, all I want is to kiss you. I am sure I want to kiss you.”

 Frank looked at the artist for a while longer, adamant on reading the older man’s eyes; but he soon gave up, and let a careless smile onto his face, and he said, “Well, if you’re sure…”


	14. Chapter 14

When Gerard came home about an hour late from his job that night, just as Frank was getting ready to leave for his, the first thing that he said was, “I’ve got to go on a business trip.”

 And the second thing anybody said was, “Why?” (It was Frank.)

 “I don’t know,” the artist spoke honestly, dropping his coat and bag onto the floor like he always did, before moving into the kitchen to get himself something to eat. “I’m supposed to be out the door by 9:00 tomorrow to catch a flight to California, where some balding fat pretentious–” the artist cut himself off with a cough, “Excuse me, some huge-ass offer dressed in a cheap suit is waiting for me.” He shrugged as he turned to face Frank, one hand full of half a PB & J sandwich the younger man had made himself for lunch earlier in the day. “Is this yours? Can I eat it?”

 “What?” Frank looked at him, honestly confused. “Oh, um, yeah?” He set down his bag and walked over to Gerard, and asked, “How long are you gonna be gone?”

 “Oh, like… three days, tops. I only have to meet the guy once, and decide if what he’s got is right for me. Most of the trip will be spent on a plane, which I’m not looking that forward to, but–”

 “You’ll be gone for three days?” Frank asked, wide-eyed. He sounded more worried than the artist had expected.

 “Well, yeah, but it’s all fine. I do this loads, I was only surprised because I hadn’t for so long, and–”

 Frank cut him off again. “But I’ll be alone. Gerard, I haven’t been alone by myself for more than 6 hours in the past almost half-year. What am I supposed to do with myself?”

 “What? Oh, I’m sure you can find something. Honestly, it won’t be that bad, I’ll be back before you know it.” The artist wiped the remaining sandwich crumbs off his hands into the sink, and turned to Frank as he made his way to his bedroom. “I promise, I’m not leaving for good…” he trailed off, and then before he could reach the bedroom, turned back around to come up to Frank, looking sympathetically at the younger man. He reached up and pushed the hair out of Frank’s eyes and said, “Look, Frankie… I l– I’m not gonna leave you, okay? Don’t worry about it, for me?”

 Frank nodded slowly. “Yeah, but… this is the last time I see you before you leave for three whole days. Not much of a notice…”

 “Yeah, that’s not my fault, blame the douchebag who wanted me in Cali ASAP. Look, when I get home I promise we’ll have a day all for us, okay? No distractions or any of that dumb shit. Now, you need to get to work…”

 “Yeah.” Frank dropped his hand from where it was around the artist’s, and he sighed. “Have fun, Gee. Bring me back something; don’t get tan, I dunno. You’re right, though, I’ll be okay, I think.”

 “I know you will.” The artist smiled, but as he saw the younger man begin to turn around, he said, “Oh, Frankie?” and he leaned in and pressed his lips to the younger man’s forehead, and said, “Be safe.”

 “Yeah, Gee,” Frank sighed. “You too.”

 

 

 When Frank woke up the next morning, Gerard was already gone, and there was a pounding on the apartment door that physically, Frank thought, could not actually be there–because no one ever came to visit the recluse artist and his broken prostitute.

 So, he got out of bed, stretching as he did so, and he walked himself over to Gerard’s drawer, where he pulled out one of the artist’s oversized shirts and slipped it on, because he at least had the decency to show up clothed to the uninvited guest’s still-too-early-for-this loud relentless banging.

 He opened the door and the first thing he thought after doing so was when had Gerard done his hair blonde, and then it was, “Gerard is gone, you shitdick,” and Frank finally came to the realization that yes, he had seen this person before, with the same eyes full of secrets and the same long pointed nose, he’d been called a prostitute in a less-than-polite tone of voice by this very person on the street a few months ago, and oh, why, oh why was Gerard’s brother here when the artist himself wasn’t, Frank really wasn’t ready to deal with this after a restless night of sleep and drinking one too many beers.

 Then he noticed that Mikey was bleeding pretty heavy from some pretty heavy cuts running up his left arm and he mentally sighed, and then felt absolutely terrible for doing so, ushering the blonde man into the house before slamming the door behind him and yelling, “The hell?” and then, “Oh, god are you okay?”

 “I– no,” Mikey stuttered out, and it took Frank only .3 more seconds to realize that the man was shaking pretty badly, like he’d been electrocuted twice over before showing up on Gerard’s doorstep for heys and hellos. “I need help, Frank, I did a bad thing.”

 “Oh, well obviously–”

 “Don’t yell at me!” the blonde man practically screamed himself, and then, “God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

 Frank ran a hand through his hair and breathed out sharply, eyebrows furrowed. “I need–” and he turned around to grab a towel off the kitchen counter before shoving it into the blonde man’s arms, telling him, “Hold it there to stop the bleeding and tell me what’s wrong. What did you do?”

 “Gee called me this morning,” the older man stuttered out, “and he told me he’d be missing dinner with me because he was going away for– for a while, and–” Mikey stopped and shuttered out a breath. “And he never misses dinner, I– we do it every week so I can make sure that he’s safe, and he’s late a lot and sometimes I th-think that he might not– that he’s not– but he always, he’s always there and I always know he’s safe… I got so mad, I couldn’t stand it–”

 Frank felt his stomach drop as he remembered something the artist said the day he’d met his erratically odd younger brother.

  _“He’s bipolar… he doesn’t take his meds either.”_

“Oh, shit, Mikey? You haven’t been taking your meds…”

 “No, I–”

 “Oh, fuck, no wonder.. Where are they? Mikey?” Frank was growing increasingly worried by the blonde’s lack of response, until he looked up at the younger man with big, wide, scared eyes.

 “I took them all at once.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting a warning up here so those of you that are triggered or disturbed by vomit/things involving can avoid about the first half of this chapter. I didn't want to write the part, but I had to.

“I’m sorry. I know, I’m sorry.” It was all Frank could say as he pushed his fingers down the blonde’s throat, holding the older man’s hair back with his other hand. “I’m sorry, shh, it’s okay, I’m sorry.”

 He pulled his fingers away just as Mikey once again gagged into the toilet he was clutching, white-knuckled and like his life depended on it–which really, Frank thought, it kind of did. “I’m so sorry, Mikey,” he added as the blonde once again heaved up what he had left in his stomach. “Shh, it’ll be okay, just get it all out, please, it’ll be okay.”

 Mikey was crying now, thick, heavy sobs as he emptied his stomach, and he was shaking, and he oh-so-regretted ever taking his pills. He was going to die. He was so scared that he was going to die. “I’m gonna die, God,” he moaned, and gagged again.

 “Shh, no, it’s gonna be fine.” But Frank was sure even Mikey could tell that his voice was shaking as much as the blonde man was–because he wasn’t sure. “You just gotta get it all out, okay? I’m so sorry, Mikey.” He winced when the other man retched again, and only prayed silently that it would be over soon.

 “I can’t–” the blonde stuttered out. “I can’t– I–”

 “You can, it’s okay and I’m so sorry, but you gotta let me do it again, okay? I’m so sorry, but you gotta get them out, now.” And Frank shot the older man a sympathetic look, furrowing his eyebrows and saying, “I’m sorry,” before he reached up and pushed two fingers down the blonde’s throat once again.

 He pulled back once he felt Mikey gag again, and watched as the blonde man emptied out the last of his stomach’s contents. “Is that it?” he asked, just to make sure, and Mikey made some sort of a choked, garbled noise in response, before falling back into Frank’s arms and erupting into sobs.

 “Hey, it’s okay now, you’re okay... I’ll draw you a bath, and make you some hot tea, and I’ll put your clothes in the wash and it will all be okay, alright?” Mikey nodded shakily, and Frank held the man tighter, pressing his chin to the top of the blonde’s head. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re okay now, I promise.”

 “I’m sorry,” the blonde whimpered as Frank was helping him up. “Please don’t call Gee, please. I’m sorry.”

 “Mikey, I already put off calling an ambulance, and that could put you in serious danger…”

 “But I got them all out, I swear.” The older man’s voice was shaky with sobs, and he coughed a little after some words. “Please, don’t call Gee, please…”

 Frank looked at the blonde with sad eyes, and finally he sighed, and nodded. He reached over and flushed the toilet, and then turned on the bath, and said, “I’m gonna go get you a towel. Give me your shirt, at least, so I can it clean for you.” And Mikey was happy to pull the article of clothing as far away from his body as it would get, and maybe burn it, sweat-covered and stained in vomit, something that now would be too full of memories he didn’t need.

 Frank took his own shirt off, or really, Gerard’s shirt off, then, putting it with Mikey’s in the wash and then retrieving the blonde man a towel from the cupboard above the dryer. He stopped in the bathroom and set the towel on the sink, and said, “I won’t call Gee, for now. You’re so fucking lucky they’re just mood stabilizers, Mikey, you could have killed yourself–” Frank stopped himself, and his eyes grew wide as he looked towards the blonde man. “I’m sorry,” he said, and then turned quickly, leaving with, “I’ll just be a minute with that tea,” before silently cursing himself for being so upfront with the younger Way.

 Frank busied himself with the tea for a bit longer than was probably necessary, still cursing himself out in his mind, not able to even fathom some sort of apology that he thought would even be decent enough for empty air. He finally gave up, and returned to the bathroom with the tea, knocking quietly as to not just rudely barge in and make himself even more of a fuck than he’d already been.

 “S’okay, come in,” Mikey called, and Frank pushed the door open, and made a distinct effort to look anywhere but the blonde man as to give him some sort of privacy. It only ended up in making him look stupid, and Mikey laughed–an actual laugh, although it was a quiet one. Frank felt like this should count toward his resume, and didn’t feel so bad anymore.

 He still said, “I’m sorry,” though, as he handed the blonde the tea, adding, “Be careful, cup’s hot.”

 “It’s okay, you know. I was trying. I mean,” and Mikey sighed, “I wasn’t thinking. So, maybe– I don’t know if that counts. But the principle is the same. So, it’s whatever. God,” he said, and laughed at himself, “I’m so stupid. And you, shut up about apologizing. You saved my life, so. Shut up.” He then blushed, and covered his face with the mug.

 Frank went to turn away then, but Mikey held an arm out to him, and said, “No. Stay, please? I’m– I’m scared.”

 Frank didn’t ask why. He nodded, and flipped the toilet lid down, and sat himself on it, and said, “Yeah. ’Course.”

 “What’s it like?” Mikey asked, after a while of silence–not the awkward kind, surprisingly enough to both men, but the kind where you feel like everything might be okay for a while.

 “Hmm?”

 “Being a–well, it’s not my place to ask–”

 “It’s hard,” Frank nodded, and stared hard at the wall. “It’s scary, a lot of the time. It’s gross, and loud, and messy, and meaningless… but I need money. It’s all I know how to do.”

 “If he paid you, would you ever…?” Mikey blushed then, and buried his face in his mug once more.

 Frank laughed, kind of, confused. “What?”

 “Gerard. I mean, I mean he’s not the type,” Mikey stammered, quick to reassure the younger man. “He never would. I mean he loves you.”

 “What was that?”

 “He cares about you,” Mikey rushed, and thanked God that Frank really hadn’t appeared to have heard him the first time. “He cares too much. But still, would you?”

 “Are you seriously sat in the bath asking me if I would sleep with your brother for money?” Frank rolled his eyes. “Jesus, you’re both weirdos, I’ll give you that.” He leaned back then, and actually thought about it a little, before he said, “You know, I don’t think I could.”

 Mikey raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Why?”

 And Frank looked at him then, soft, sad expression on his face, and a hint of something in his eye like he’d known something Mikey didn’t, and he said, “Well, because. I care too much.”


	16. Chapter 16

“You ever read The Doom Patrol?”

 “Yes. What?” Frank looked up at the blonde man who was currently hanging off Gerard’s bed, his nose buried in one of the artist’s ‘oh-so-precious’ comic books.

 “It’s like, Gerard’s favorite comic ever. Of like, the century. Of like, his life,” Mikey said, and then rolled over, so the top third of him was still hanging off the bed, but now he faced the ceiling. “Who was your first kiss?”

 “What?” Frank looked up again, putting down the pencil and paper he was trying to write some sort of lyrics on, and rubbing at his eyes slowly, asking, “Why?”

 “I’m bored,” said Mikey. “So?” He flicked the comic book down and sat up enough to where he could be seen looking at the younger man directly. He asked, “Who was it?” before flopping back down again.

 “Your brother,” Frank said outright, albeit a bit warily, as he moved to pick up the pencil and paper again.

 “Oh, same,” said the blonde, and Frank dropped the pencil right back down again, saying, “Pardon?”

 “Well, I mean, I was like, three. And it was New Years. And then it was just a thing we did–it’s just a thing we do. Platonic kisses are a thing, dude, you know that, right? Like, totally normal.” Mikey seemed to roll his eyes at nothing, as if having to give this speech for the hopefully last out of numerous times before. Frank just blinked at him.

 “Okay,” he finally said, shaking his head a bit; and went and finally grabbed up the paper he was writing on, before he could drop it again out of sheer shock, or frustration, or whatever else emotion would blossom from what the older man was going to say next.

 “Wow, no wonder my brother likes you,” the blonde said then, seemingly out of nowhere. Frank actually physically gave up then, setting the paper and pencil back in the drawer that was now his, in the nightstand by Gerard’s bed, and then throwing his hands up in exasperation, saying, “Oh, really? Enlighten me.”

 “Well, he tells me he likes you, anyway. A lot. I mean, he tells me a lot, not he likes you a lot… I guess it’s kind of both? Anyway, he never shuts up about you. I know more about you than you know about you at this point, probably.” Mikey smirked a little, and sat up, finally, tossing the comic aside like it wasn’t something Gerard had frequently reminded the youngest man to either “touch very, very carefully, like more careful than a baby”, or to not touch at all.

 “That’s weird,” Frank said, and leaned back on one of the huge fluffy white pillows adorning the artist’s bed.

 “What, that he likes you? Why, don’t you like him?” Mikey looked honestly confused at that.

 “No, I mean–well, yeah. I’m a prostitute he found one night drenched and seemingly equivalent to a dying street rat. Who likes someone like that?” Frank explained, sighing.

 “Oh, no, see… Gerard is an artist. Artists find beauty in the destruction of the world, and creativity blossoming in the cracks of the cement sidewalk. He thinks you’re beautiful, Frank; and kind, and loving, and energetic, and positive, and so open. He admires you a lot for that. Trust me, I know he does; because my brother is not any of those people, though he wishes so much he could be.” Mikey sighed then, too, and looked at Frank with honest eyes. “He wants to be like you, you know. Brave, and strong, and all that shit, I don’t know, but he tells me every day I see him, so. I mean, when something’s important to him, he doesn’t just let it go.”

 “Wh– but–?” Frank tried to interject, but the blonde just shook his head, and although he didn’t visibly smile, it was clear in his eyes.

 “You mean so much to him, Frank, you don’t even know.” 

“Yeah,” the younger man breathed out, “He’s told me that before.”

 Mikey shrugged then, and said, “See? I don’t lie.”

 “You’re a compulsive liar. He’s said that before, too,” Frank said, and Mikey rolled his eyes.

 “Yeah, well he once told me that he’s fingered himself more than any girlfriend he ever had combined, so.”

 “What does that even mean?” Frank snorted, and Mikey laughed at the younger man’s expression. It was like he was trying to fit seven emotions on his face all at once.

 “I dunno, I just. Ask him,” the blonde said, and shrugged.

 “Oh, yeah, uh-huh, sure. ‘Hey, Gerard, I’m not sure about something Mikey told me, but I wanted to clarify… he says you’ve fingered yourself more than all your girlfriends combined?’” Frank snorted again, almost like he couldn’t figure an appropriate enough noise to make in reaction.

 “He’d say yes, trust me,” Mikey said pointedly, and then began laughing much harder than Frank had expected, so much so that it startled the younger man into his own laughter, and then they were both rolling around on the bed beside themselves, over something that neither of them were sure was actually funny at all.

 “Jesus,” Mikey wheezed, once the two had stopped laughing so hard. “I don’t even have asthma and I’m gonna need an inhaler.”

 Frank rolled his eyes then, and said, “So, you and Gerard are pretty close then?”

 “What makes you say that?” Mikey asked in faux wonderment. “Yeah, we’re really close. Growing up we only ever had each other, so.”

 “This is the longest I’ve gone without seeing him since I met him,” Frank admitted, and shook his head. “It’s kinda weird, because up until your brother, I had nobody. Now he’s like… my everything. I mean that in the most literal sense, too–he gives me food, and shelter, and clothes, and company and happiness and comfort, and he never asks for anything in return. Why does he do that?”

 And Frank would never know how desperately at that moment the blonde wanted to say, “Because he loves you.” Instead, Mikey settled for, “I dunno, Gerard’s an asshole, trust me. Count your fucking lucky stars, man,” laughing along with Frank, who nodded in a somewhat agreement.

 “Yeah. I do.”


	17. Chapter 17

“Gee’s back.”

Mikey looked up at Frank, biting his lip, eyes wide. “Shit, really?”

“Well,” Frank shrugged, and went back to bandaging up the heavy gashes up the length of the blonde man’s left arm. “I just got a text from him that said something along the lines of that. He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

“Shit,” Mikey cursed, and pulled his arm away before Frank was done, hissing in pain. “He can’t see these. Do you have a hoodie I could borrow?”

“He does, I bet,” Frank said apologetically, and shrugged, pulling the older man’s arm back to him gently, and finishing off tucking down the bandage. “I don’t have many clothes, still. I just borrow his.”

“Don’t you get tired of that?” Mikey asked, letting his hand fall to Frank’s and squeezing it in a quiet “thank you” before hopping off the bed and going to search for one of the artist’s sweatshirts. He pulled one out after searching through a few drawers, muttering something like, “Oh, this is mine anyway,” before turning back to Frank.

“No, I mean, he really doesn’t mind. He keeps offering to buy me stuff though, and I can’t let him do that.”

“Why not?”

“Are you crazy? The dude gives me everything I could possibly want, I can’t ask for more, jesus.” Frank shook his head and shoved the rest of the bandages and the antiseptic back in his nightstand drawer, then went over to shut the one Mikey had opened to get his sweatshirt. “I mean fuck, dude, the things he does for me… You know it’s so funny, how he’s such an asshole in the papers, because he’s never been anything but an angel to me.”

“You’re lucky then,” Mikey said, pushing himself up onto the dresser and sitting on it, watching Frank clear up the mess in the artist’s bedroom. “He’s even an asshole to me, sometimes.”

“Well, I don’t know why I’m any different,” the younger man sighed.

“Because you are, I guess. Look, you can’t expect to be able to understand how Gerard’s mind works after this short of a time. I mean, I’m his brother, and I’ve known him my whole life, and I still don’t get him. That’s just it, though. So, don’t feel bad.”

“I don’t, I just wish–well, whatever.” Frank shut the last door then, just as he heard a door shut somewhere in the front of the apartment. “Oh, that was fast.”

Mikey’s eyes widened a bit, and he said, “Uh, distract him, will you? I’m just gonna sneak out like I’m fifteen again, and he’ll never know I was here, okay?”

“What? Why?”

“Because he knows when I’m lying to him, and I hate it. Plus as far as he knows, I hate you, or something–which I really don’t, but. I don’t have a good excuse as to why I’m here, so.” Mikey shrugged apologetically.

“Okay, well…” and Frank walked out of the bedroom, down the hall and into the kitchen, where Gerard was standing fawning over his stupid window plant, asking it if it had missed him. The younger man felt his heart swell and had to swallow a few times before the feeling went away, just barely.

“Oh, Frankie!” Gerard cried when he turned around, and walked, barefoot, as Frank now realized, up to the younger man. He touched Frank’s face lightly, and then his neck, and said, “It’s moving, I think. Frank, you have a scorpion on your neck, and it’s moving.” He pulled his hand away quickly and grimaced at it.

“Gerard?” Frank looked strangely at the artist. “What are you– where are your shoes?”

“I gave them to someone. At the airport. But shhh, it’s a secret,” the artist pressed, and then giggled hysterically.

“You’re fucking high.” It wasn’t a question, Frank knew this for certain; and he sighed, and brought the artist over to the couch, sitting him down. He barely noticed when Mikey slipped out the door.

“Yeah, I take Xanax to fly, because it gives me anxiety. Frank, will you take off your shirt?”

“S–what?”

“Take it off, I wanna see you.”

“Why?” Frank asked, sounding appalled.

“Because,” Gerard whined, running his hands over Frank’s chest before falling back against the couch. “You’re hot naked and I’m horny.”

“Okay,” Frank said slowly, moving Gerard’s hand back as he tried to put it up the younger man’s shirt. “You’re on drugs, right now. You need to go– I dunno, take a shower, and get in bed. You’ve had a long flight, or something, and–”

“But I don’t wanna be clean,” Gerard pouted. “I wanna get dirty.” And then he smirked, and Frank silently cursed Mikey for not just staying around more than two minutes.

“Are you sure you’re not drunk, too?”

“Maybe,” Gerard shrugged. He seemed decidedly unsure. “I didn’t have anything to drink, that I can remember, anyway.” He huffed then, and said, “Stop distracting me!”

“That’s kind of the point!” Frank retorted. “You’re not– you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“So?” Gerard whined again. “Ugh, you’re such a hardass.”

“Yeah, and you’re a high shitdick. Just get in the bath, okay, and then we can go to bed. It’s late.” Frank sighed, and was very tempted to pinch the bridge of his nose, honestly.

“But Frankie…” the artist whined once more, and Frank sighed, once more, as Gerard began to crawl into his lap, setting himself down and nosing at Frank’s neck. “The scorpion is still moving.”

Frank was about to say something in response, probably a weak retort along the lines of, “Yeah, well you’re still high,” but his breath only caught in his throat as he felt the artist begin to place slow, wet kisses down the line of his neck, and jaw, nipping just above his collarbone; and Frank could feel the fucker smile against his neck when he said, “Your heart’s beating so fast, Frankie.” It was low, and dirty, and Frank wanted to cry. This was not the situation he’d wanted to be in at all–well, not particularly. 

“Gerard…” he warned, his voice wavering when he artist nipped and sucked at a particular spot on his neck, just below the scorpion. “I swear–”

“It’s not nice to swear, Frankie,” the artist purred, and one of his hands slipped up Frank’s shirt slowly, teasingly, as he leaned forward to press his lips to Frank’s.

“You’re gonna regret this,” Frank argued, trying to hold Gerard off long enough for the artist to listen to him. “Look, Gerard–”

“What, you don’t want me?”

“Oh, God, that’s not what I said–” The younger man was really very not ready for this conversation to happen, at all.

“Well, you don’t want to– you don’t like it? I–”

“Yeah, Gerard, I like it, okay? I like it too much, and I– I mean, I can’t–”

“I wanna make you feel good, Frankie,” the artist pouted, and sighed. “I wanna make you feel so good, because you deserve it, and I–” Gerard stopped then, and furrowed his eyebrows, frustrated. “I’m not good enough.”

Frank sighed, loud, and said, “God, you are good enough, Gerard. You’re better than good, you’re so much fucking better than good. And I, I mean I lo–” Frank slumped his shoulders down then, and he could feel his heart aching as the artist gave him very convincing puppy eyes, and he just gave up. “Yeah, I like it, okay?” He pulled the artist in for a kiss, then, and said against Gerard’s lips, “I really fucking like it.”

He ignored the part of his brain pressing how much he’d just wanted to say, “I really fucking like you,” instead.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is about a month late, but I hope it's at least kind of worth it.

When Frank woke up that morning, it was only for a few seconds, and it wasn’t long enough for him to really realize anything of anything at all. He only saw a faint glimpse of Gerard’s nightstand up much closer than it normally was, and assumed that “whatever, he was probably in Gerard’s bed, no big deal”, before falling back asleep.

He woke up again when he heard rustling, and he felt the bed dip, and the covers shift, and then there was the heat of an whole other person behind him. And when that person rested their arm over Frank’s, and put their nose in the crook of his shoulder, Frank–still sleepy as ever–asked aloud in a quiet-type voice, “Did we…?” He kinda trailed off, because he had fallen into the grips of sleep again.

So when Gerard kissed his shoulder and said, “No. I love you too much,” he didn’t hear it in the slightest.

 

 

He woke up again for the third time too hot, and kinda horny, and trapped under Gerard’s leg. It was at that point that he realized that if Gerard was on Frank’s side of the bed, then Frank must have been where the artist slept, and no wonder the nightstand was closer than normal.

He kinda rolled over a little bit, until his face was tucked into Gerard’s shoulder, and he kinda breathed there for a while like a puppy trying to get attention before Gerard opened one eye (Frank had known the artist wasn’t really asleep in the first place, he was a terrible faker) and looked at the younger man questioningly. “Yeah, Frankie?”

“What happened last night?” The words were muffled and kind of vibrated against Gerard’s collarbone, and the artist tried desperately to not shift and hit Frank in the face.

“Nothing happened, Frankie. And I’m sorry–”

“Look,” Frank said, and sat up a bit. “I forgive you. I just wanna know…” and then Frank himself actually remembered, and scrunched up his face because remembering Gerard all hot and heavy under him when Gerard was literally right there sitting half on top of him wasn’t the greatest idea, probably.

“Well, I said “Let me fuck you” and you said “Yeah, yeah okay” and when I went to kiss you,” the artist bit his lip, “I could see it in your eyes that you were scared, and you were sad and god, Frankie, I’ve seen you sad but I’ve never seen that look but I knew it, I knew what it had to be, and I know that you didn’t know it was there, maybe, but I did, I saw it, and the only thing it was screaming to me was “You’re just another one of those men”.” 

Gerard looked down then, away from Frank. “I couldn’t do it. No matter how fucked my brain still was last night there was that shock jolt through my mind that if I went through with it, no matter if you knew it consciously or not, I would always just be another one of those men. And I can’t do that to you, Frankie, not me. I’m supposed to be the safety in your life, I’m not supposed to scare you, and I–”

“But you are,” Frank said then, and lifted the artist’s chin a bit. “You are everything good in my life, Gerard. Sometimes you just have to take the good with the bad.”

“But I don’t want to be the bad, Frank. I want to be the warmth you come to when you’re sick, or cold; I want to be the muse for the songs you write, if you ever get around to playing; I want to be the better life that it took you eight years to find but you did, you found it in an idiot who was too paranoid to remember if he’d locked his car for the night or not.” Gerard laughed at himself, then, but his eyes were sad, and serious. He ran a hand through Frank’s hair as he continued, “I wanna be the person who sings to you when you’re sad, and paints you when you’re happy and can sit still long enough; I want to be the person that you come home to at 5 AM and all you want is for me to touch you, and take away the bad of each night you have to do something no one as perfect as you deserves to do. I want to stay in late and fuck you lazy on Saturday mornings, and call you mine if anyone asks.” Gerard sighed then, and his eyes were kind of wide, and sad and worried, maybe, or afraid, and so he bit his lip and looked down quickly, nervously, before he locked eyes with Frank again, and he said, “Because I love you.”

Frank couldn’t tell if his heart was in his throat or the bottom of his stomach but it didn’t matter, it didn’t fucking matter because before he could get a chance to breathe he was rushing out, “God, god I love you too,” and pressing his lips to the artist’s– too hot, too heavy, too desperate, too in love to focus on anything.

Frank was pulled into Gerard’s lap, the artist’s hands running up his shirt because, “Off, take it off, Jesus, Frankie,” and then once it was off and somewhere across the room, he was saying in between kisses, “God, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to say that, God, Frank, fuck–”

“I love you, I love you, I love you, oh fuck I love you.” The younger man couldn’t even say anything more, because it just felt so good to get it out, because it felt better than anything to hear the artist say it back to him, words muffled against his jaw, or neck, or collarbone, or chest. It was all Frank wanted to hear ever again.

“God, I love you too, fuck I love you so much, Frankie,” and Gerard grabbed the younger man’s hips and rocked them up against his, relishing in the stupid little whimpers Frank made, _his_ Frank, and all because of Gerard, he loved _Gerard_ , and how, the artist couldn’t even comprehend, but he did and Gerard was so grateful.

The artist shifted his hips up again and Frank moaned, or maybe giggled (though it was probably a bit of both) and said, “I feel like I’m fifteen again, Christ. What, are you trying to make me come in my fucking boxer briefs, or something?”

Gerard laughed against the younger man’s shoulder. “You want me to?”

And Frank’s breath kinda hitched, and he bit his lip, and he said, “Oh, god yeah I do.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with me through the end with this story. I'm sorry if the ending seems a bit unsatisfactory, but there had to be some stuff left for the sequel, right? (As for the sequel, I don't know when that will be coming out. But I want it to be, I really do.)
> 
> Anyway, I know my posting got very irregular toward the end, as do all my stories, really. I'm glad you guys didn't give up on me because of that, and I hope you liked this all the way through.

“Frankie?”

“Yeah?” The younger man looked up from the TV at Gerard, who was still closing the door, dropping his coat on the floor like always. He muted the TV and shuffled himself up around the couch, watching the artist carefully. “What’s up?”

“Well–” Gerard interrupted himself to coo at the plant on his windowsill like always, and to retrieve a cup of cold coffee from the refrigerator before continuing. “What if you quit your job?”

Frank stilled, kind of, and furrowed his eyebrows together. “Look, I’ve told you already, this is the only thing I know how to do, and–”

“Well, do you want it to be that way?”

The younger man looked appalled. “Of course I don’t want it to be that way! Do you think I like getting fucked for a living? It’s not fun, Gerard. Sex isn’t fun to me. It’s meaningless. It’s work. But, I’m used to it,” and at that, Frank’s shoulders sagged down a bit, and he sighed, “and I really don’t know anything else. I’m not qualified for anything higher than fast food work, and I think I’d honestly rather keep a job where I get payed much more than minimum wage, even if it is–God, I don’t know.”

Gerard set down his coffee and made his way to the younger man, unsure of which topic to touch on first. He finally sighed, and settled on the couch next to Frank, wrapping his arms around the younger man and resting on his shoulder. “Frankie, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he began. Frank just shrugged under him.

“It’s whatever, you know? Like, fuck, I wish I had a real job like you, y’know? But I don’t, and so what? I make a living. It’s–I mean…” He sighed again and let his head fall back against Gerard’s chest. “I don’t know, Gee.”

“Well, what if–look, what did you wanna do when you were a kid?”

“I wanted to be in a band, as if.”

Gerard smiled sadly. “Well, what else?”

Frank thought for a bit, biting his lip. “I wanted to make monster movies.”

“Okay, that’s something to go off. Okay, so what if I sent you off to college? And you could learn all about directing, and producing, and special effects… would you like that?”

Frank snorted. “Sure I would, Gee. But I don’t have the money for that. I didn’t even finish fucking high school. They’re not gonna let me in anywhere.”

Gerard frowned, like he hadn’t thought of that bit before. “Oh. Right. Well–”

“Look, I appreciate you trying to help, but this is me, Gee. You knew that from day one, remember? I’m the little sewer rat hooker that showed up on your doorstep one night, and that’s all I’ll ever be.”

“That’s not true,” the artist said softly. “You’re too beautiful to ever be just that, Frankie.”

“Yeah, well I’m not to everyone else,” the younger man scoffed, and then turned and buried his face in Gerard’s chest. “God, I don’t wanna be a whore, Gee.”

“You aren’t, baby. You’re not. You’re just a boy who got a little bit too lost for a little bit too long. I’m sorry I couldn’t have found you sooner,” the artist said, and he ran his fingers through Frank’s hair. “I love you so much, you know? You’re never gonna be a whore in my eyes. You’re strong, and beautiful, and you’ve pushed through so much more shit than anybody who’d ever look down on you has. You’re so brave for that, Frankie.”

“I don’t feel brave,” the younger man said, and his voice kinda cracked. “I don’t feel brave, Gee, I feel scared, and used, and dirty, and I just–”

“So then I’m gonna make you feel beautiful, okay? I’m gonna make you feel safe and loved. And I know you said that sex is meaningless–”

“Not with you. God, it’s not, with you, Gerard. It’s–fuck, I don’t know, I’m stupid. But it’s–I don’t know, I love you, and I feel so good when you touch me–it’s like I… I don’t know. Without you, I can’t be damned to try, Gee. You stop the noise, that’s it. You stop all the noise in my head, and all I can feel is you, and all I can hear and see and everything, it’s all you, and God, Gee, please? Please just take the noise away.” And Frank looked up then, and his eyes were kinda wet, and really sad, and Gerard nodded, pulling the younger man’s face up to his own.

“Yeah, baby, okay. It’s okay. I’m gonna make it all stop.” And the artist kissed him like he never wanted to stop, but that was fine because neither of them really did.

“I love you so much,” Frank sighed, and Gerard smiled against the younger man’s lips. 

“I love you more.”


End file.
